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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24340087">velvet and steel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/balladofwolves/pseuds/balladofwolves'>balladofwolves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Murder, Crime AU, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, Happy Ending, Jaskier is also part-elf, Kidnapping, M/M, Modern verse!Continent, Pining, Promise, Sexual Tension, Singer!Jaskier, Slow Burn, So do mages, Witchers still exist, because i don’t do anything else, i didn’t just throw it in there this time, it’s important to this story, mob boss!Geralt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:21:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,723</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24340087</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/balladofwolves/pseuds/balladofwolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Reckless up-and-coming singer Jaskier lands himself in hot water when one of his more political songs goes viral, and nearly gets him killed. Queen Calanthe of Cintra wants his head, but Jaskier is placed under the protection of the Order of the Wolf, the most powerful crime organization in the Continent - </p><p>And finds himself falling in love with none other than Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, and leader of the Order. Jaskier’s never been known to make good, or safe, choices. </p><p>Or: a Witcher Crime AU set in a modern-verse Continent, featuring mob boss!Geralt, singer!Jaskier, and the slowest of slow burns.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Priscilla, Jaskier | Dandelion &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1278</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i’m back on my geraskier bullshit, this time with a multi-chaptered slow burn crime au. haven’t really written anything like this ever, so i’m a little apprehensive to post, but hope you like!</p><p>this story *is* complete, i just have to decide on the frequency with which i want to update it. i’m thinking of making it a daily thing - is that something y’all would be into? maybe an every other day update instead? let me know what you’d prefer in the comments.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm?” Jaskier blinks at the sound of his name being called, inclining his head. Standing in the doorway of his room in the flat they share, Priscilla shoots him a look that is halfway between exasperated and fond, folding her arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Melitele Jaskier, did you hear one word of what I said?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has the grace to look ashamed. “Ah, no, I’m sorry, Pri. I just - I haven’t been able to stop staring at it,” Jaskier says with a grimace. He gestures towards the screen of his laptop for extra emphasis. There’s a YouTube video with the title </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can imagine </span>
  </em>
  <span>pulled up on the browser, a flurry of comments steadily building right underneath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla’s gaze flickers over to the screen before her eyes meet Jaskier’s once more, an indulgent smile on her face. “How many views now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Just over </span>
  <em>
    <span>one million. </span>
  </em>
  <span>In two days! Can you even believe it? And the comments,” Jaskier continues, so excited he’s practically vibrating with it. The blue of his irises are sparkling like the ocean on a sun-bright summer’s day. “Gods it feels like everyone in the Continent is listening to my song and </span>
  <em>
    <span>relating</span>
  </em>
  <span> to it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d written and composed </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can imagine </span>
  </em>
  <span>in a few frenzied and sleepless days. Queen Calanthe of Cintra had once again announced policies that would strip protections for elves, dwarves, and other nonhumans, putting them in even greater danger in a country already hostile towards them. The xenophobia was so blatant, so disgusting it had filled Jaskier with such white hot anger that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed </span>
  </em>
  <span>to put into song. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every frustration about Calanthe, every injustice he’s seen enacted on magical beings, every hope he’s ever had of a Continent that is </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span> than its history, Jaskier had poured into his lyrics. It had felt like the song had seized him by the throat, and wouldn’t let him rest until he’d set the words to music and sang with the force of all the emotions swirling in his breastbone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The response since he uploaded his song to YouTube has been nothing short of incredible. Thousands of people, commenting on how </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>song makes them feel, how they share his anger and his hopes. It’s heartening, </span>
  <em>
    <span>validating</span>
  </em>
  <span> even, especially given how aimless he’s been feeling since graduating from Oxenfurt two months ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m so happy for you, Jaskier,” Priscilla says, but there’s a frown creasing her brow, and the corners of her mouth are pinched with worry. “I just - don’t you think Queen Calanthe is going to do...</span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>about this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What could she possibly do? We’re in Posada, not in Cintra. She can’t touch me here,” Jaskier assures, but it does nothing to smooth away the concern on Priscilla’s features. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel like you’ve put this huge target on your back, and Calanthe doesn’t strike me as a particularly forgiving or compassionate ruler.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows what Priscilla means. Although the Continent as a whole has tried to move from the ways of old, and freedoms of speech and self-expression are much greater, and much more enforced than they once were, Calanthe continues to be a notable exception among the land’s monarchs. Ruthless and with little tolerance towards dissent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier refuses to be ruled by fear. He’s made his calculations, and decided the risk was worth it. Especially given that he lives nowhere near Cintra. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So much concern for little old me? Pri, I’m flattered.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not joking, Jaskier,” Priscilla says, voice thick and blue eyes solemn. “She could hurt you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shakes his head, standing up from his chair. “She won’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How can you be so sure?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just think the monarch of one of the most powerful countries in the Continent has better things to do than concern herself with a lowly musician with one viral hit,” He replies, and loops a hand around Priscilla’s arm to give it a reassuring squeeze. “You worry too much, darling. I’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If you say so.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla still looks skeptical, and Jaskier can’t help the burst of affection in his chest. It’s been years now, since they met each other that first year at Oxenfurt, and Priscilla remains his dearest friend, the only person he’s ever met who understands him so completely and cares for him so uncompromisingly. Gods know, his father holds no love for him, and his mother - well, Jaskier can’t let himself think about Ilona right now. Even after all these years, the thought of her still twists his heart with grief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, he presses a kiss to Priscilla’s cheek. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>say so,” he murmurs, pleased when Priscilla huffs out a low laugh. “Now will you help me pack up for this gig tonight?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, fine you insufferable arse,” she replies with no bite in her tone. Her brow has finally smoothed, no worry lines creasing the fine porcelain skin. Priscilla eyes him up and down critically. “Are you sure you want to go looking like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s mouth drops open in feigned outrage, even as he gives himself a cursory look. He’s wearing tight black leather pants, laced-up black boots that sit right below his knees, and a silk purple dress shirt with neon planets, stars, and galaxies printed all over it. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, the first few buttons artfully undone, exposing a dangling silver necklace and a swathe of downy chest hair. There’s a bit of kohl lining his blue eyes, his favorite cologne - a blend of cinnamon, mandarin, and oak - is on his throat and wrists, and a single tear-drop earring is at his ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re fucking with me,” he says eventually, because there’s no other possible explanation. Jaskier’s not exactly vain, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>he looks good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His only answer is Priscilla’s laugh, like bells tinkling in the wind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Edge of the World</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a small indie dive bar in downtown Posada; known for its muted lights, smoky atmosphere, and a frankly impressive catalog of draught beers for such a relatively underground place. There’s a stage at the far off end of the pub, and a couple of small rectangular wooden tables lining the floor where cheery patrons are already gathering, having grabbed pints of beer and cocktails from the bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is up on the stage, guitar slung confidently across his abdomen. He steps up to the mic, heart already racing, mouth curled helplessly into a smile. He doesn’t get nervous anymore, not really - not ever, if he’s being particularly honest with himself. He’s loved being the center of attention for as long as he could hold a tune - but Jaskier still gets a rush of adrenaline every time he performs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hopes that never fades away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Evening everyone,” he greets merrily, “how are we all doing tonight?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is answered by whistles and cheers, and his smile widens. “That’s what I like to hear. I have a few songs I’d like to play for you that I hope you’ll enjoy. Let’s get started, shall we?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He launches into his set with unabashed enthusiasm, his first song a little thing he’d composed back at Oxenfurt. It’s lively and fun, and has a good beat to it, and he delights in the responsiveness of the small crowd; those who nod or hum, or tap their foot on the ground in rhythm. The next few are songs he’s written since he’s moved to Posada - still fun, but with a certain wistfulness, the anxieties of change and uncertainty of his young adulthood evident in all of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Jaskier feels a little brave as he takes a break to drink water and sip at his own frothy pint - perhaps even a little reckless. The crowd is still raucous, still clapping and he decides to end his set with </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can imagine</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, a few people actually start to </span>
  <em>
    <span>sing along </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and if Jaskier’s heart wasn’t already fit to burst out of his chest it’s a very near thing now. When he ends his song it’s to deafening applause. Jaskier is breathless and flushed, and sweat is dripping down his temples, curling the tips of his brown hair. It’s the happiest he’s ever been. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. I wish you all a pleasantly drunk evening!” Jaskier calls out to scattered laughter, taking a deep, graceful bow. He steps away from the mic to unplug his guitar from the amp, and delicately places his cherished instrument in its velvet-lined case. Jaskier slings the case over his shoulder and wanders over to the bar, deciding to treat himself to another pint and maybe some finger food. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That last song was outstanding, mate,” the bartender comments, sliding the frothy beer towards him on a flimsy paperboard coaster. “You should come play more often.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles wide, ridiculously pleased. “Thanks. I’d really like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He polishes off the rest of his pint in between some casual conversation with the bartender and bites of deep fried pickles. Heart and stomach both full, Jaskier makes a speedy exit out of the backdoor, and into the alleyway. It rained earlier, and the streets are still slick with its remnants, the streetlight bouncing off the wet cobblestones.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier sets his guitar case on the ground next to him. His head is bowed low, thumbing over the screen of his phone, smiling when he sees a text from Priscilla. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Break a leg tonight! Let me know how it goes!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He types out a quick reply. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Went great! Crowd went wild for Imagine. About to call a Lyft. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s only just pressed send when the sound of footsteps makes him look up sharply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In front of him stand two rather burly-looking men, faces partially obscured by the hoods of their jackets. They’re both dressed in muted colors - grey and navy and dark green - and for some reason, the hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up and he finds himself very, very afraid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I help you, gentlemen?” he ventures cautiously, trying to calm the sudden irrational beating of his heart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re the guy who sings about being a monster-lover, aren’t you?” one of the men says in a tone that makes Jaskier’s blood turn to ice. He takes a step back. Both men take two steps forward. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ve been looking for you,” the other man says almost conversationally. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, and Jaskier is horrified when the man pulls out a gun and points it directly at him. “You pissed off some pretty important people, monster-lover.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier swallows heavily, heart practically in his throat. “Why- why are you doing this?” he asks, even though he has a sneaking suspicion as to what the answer might be. Both men have a distinct accent. An accent that can only be found south from here. An accent that belongs to one country in particular. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man with the gun tilts his head. “Money. Lots of it,” he says flatly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She wants him dead or alive,” the other man supplies and there is no doubt in Jaskier’s mind as to who </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>might be. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man cocks his gun. “Dead is good with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, fuck, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’s going to die, Jaskier thinks hysterically to himself. He doesn’t want to die. His mind, unbidden flashes to Priscilla, who is up waiting for him to come home. How worried she was that something exactly like this would happen to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He can’t let it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before Jaskier can fully think through his actions, he picks up his guitar case and hurls it at the man with the gun. It works; the man, caught off guard drops his weapon, and Jaskier takes the opportunity to make a mad dash out of the alleyway, running as fast as his legs will carry him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let him get away!” he hears yelled out behind him, and Jaskier picks up the pace, even though his breath is coming out in short, panicked spurts and his lungs burn. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He makes a hard right into another alleyway, hoping against hope he’s lost them. But he hears the sound of footsteps growing louder and louder, and a sob wrenches its way out of Jaskier’s throat. He keeps running - keeps running even though they’re closing in on him, because Jaskier doesn’t want to die, not like this, not when he still has so much to live for - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier trips, his hands shooting in front of him to break his fall. He feels a brief, shooting pain up both his palms, and he barely has time to scrabble back up before the two men are upon him once more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You die right now, you piece of shit,” one of the men snarls, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, heart a deafening staccato in his ears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he hears a distinctly different voice say, “I don’t think so, arsehole,” and Jaskier opens his eyes to see a man, decked in all black, run a pair of swords through both of his would-be assailants with brutal efficiency. Both bodies drop to the floor unceremoniously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier heaves out a shuddering breath, hands clapping against his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man retracts his swords and returns them, still covered in blood, to the scabbards strapped to his back. He pushes fire-red curls out of his eyes - a startling shade of amber - and comes up to stand in front of Jaskier. “Looks like you got yourself in the wrong kind of trouble,” he comments not unkindly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fear and adrenaline are still coursing through Jaskier’s body, but his mind is still as active, as sharp as it ever is. “Is there a </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of trouble?” he asks weakly, and his eyebrows rise when the man throws his head back and laughs, clearly delighted. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good to see you haven’t gone in complete shock,” he says, eyes alight, as he holds out a hand. “Name’s Lambert by the way. At your service.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Julian,” he says, shaking Lambert’s proffered hand. “But you can call me Jaskier. Thank you, by the way, for - you know - saving my life.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t thank me yet. You’re still not out of the woods. We need to get you out of here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>out of here</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Jaskier protests, incredulous, eyes roaming all over Lambert disbelievingly. “Why would you - how do you -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then he sees it, and whatever else he’s going to say dies on his tongue. The medallion hanging from Lambert’s neck, engraved with a wolf’s head. Lambert’s swords, his handiness with them. It all makes sense now. He knows who Lambert is; </span>
  <em>
    <span>what </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lambert is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Witcher</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s only ever heard about witchers in hushed conversations and in the halls of the university, and certainly never expected to meet one in person. Witchers are members of a large, underground, and criminal organization called the Order of the Wolf. The Order’s influence over the Continent is widespread, enforced by witchers as numerous and as powerful as any country’s military. Made strong, nimble, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deadly</span>
  </em>
  <span> through grueling training and trials they must undergo in order to receive the mantle of witcher, and the medallion that proudly broadcasts their affiliation. Loyal to the Order, and the Order alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There are others after you. I saw them in that dingy bar,” Lambert explains, and Jaskier blinks his thoughts away to focus on the witcher once more. Lambert’s gaze is inscrutable, but his mouth is pressed into a tight, determined line. “Listen to me, songbird: you’re not safe here. You need to come with me. Now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where - where are we going?” Jaskier asks, mind reeling - Lambert was at the bar? He saw him perform? - even as he follows the witcher further down the street and towards a sleek black car parked curbside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s seat, leaning over to open the passenger door for Jaskier. “The airport. Get in.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Jaskier stays frozen on the sidewalk, staring numbly at Lambert. There must be something scared or maybe even vulnerable in his eyes, because Lambert’s features soften. “I know this is a lot,” he says, in what Jaskier thinks must be his try at a cajoling tone. “Trust me, this is the only way to keep you safe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My roommate, Priscilla - she’ll be so worried -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll let her know you’re fine when we get to Kaer Morhen. I swear it to you. But we have to go now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bites his lower lip, torn, before he nods his head once and gets in the car, because what the fuck other choice does he have. Lambert immediately drives off, onto the relatively quiet streets of Posada, and towards the highway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then something in Jaskier’s anxiety-addled, overworked brain clicks and his eyes slide towards Lambert, widened in surprise. “Wait. You’re taking me to Kaer Morhen?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. You’ll be safest there. The White Wolf will know what to do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The White Wolf?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert shoots a bemused glance his way before turning his eyes back on the road. “The Boss,” he clarifies. “I saw you look at my medallion earlier, songbird. Surely you’ve figured out what I am.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bristles, fear and confusion cast away momentarily for annoyance. “I’m not an idiot. And I told you already, my name’s Jaskier,” he snaps. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To his surprise, Lambert laughs again. “Oh you’re a feisty thing, aren’t you? Don’t worry, nothing bad’s gonna happen to you. You’re exactly Geralt’s type,” Lambert remarks off-handedly. Jaskier has no time to unpack </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>particular statement, or inquire as to who the fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt </span>
  </em>
  <span>might be, before the witcher is pulling up into a deserted - likely private - airport tarmac, parking the car in an empty hangar. Only a few meters ahead, a small private plane awaits them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t even bother to ask how Lambert is able to have a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>jet </span>
  </em>
  <span>ready and waiting for them so quickly; only follows behind the witcher to board the aircraft, with nothing but his phone and his wallet. He thinks of his guitar lying in some seedy back alley and his heart twinges. He tries very hard not to think about Priscilla. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The plane, although small, is luxuriously furnished, with wide and plush leather seats, satin pillows, circular tables, and a large flat screen TV. Jaskier dazedly takes the seat across Lambert’s. It’s just the two of them and the flight attendant, who bears a tray with two flutes of champagne. Jaskier politely declines while Lambert eagerly takes his glass, and downs it all in two mouthfuls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should try to relax. Should be just a two hour flight,” the witcher says, reclining in his seat and propping his feet up on the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods, his tongue suddenly feeling too heavy in his mouth to speak. He inhales deeply through his nose, closes his eyes, and tries to calm his racing heart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He must fall into a dreamless, restless sleep, because when Jaskier opens his eyes once more, they’ve landed in Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: Jask it’s 1am where are you??? I thought you were coming home right after your gig</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: pls don’t tell me you picked up some rando at the pub again</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: okay this isn’t funny anymore. Where are you??</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: Jaskier you’re scaring me. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s three in the morning and the sky is still inky black when they exit the plane. A town car is already waiting for them outside. Jaskier shivers, and hugs his arms close to his chest. It’s the middle of summer, but the air is bitterly cold up here, nipping at the tops of his ears and nose. Jaskier belatedly wonders if Kaer Morhen is perpetually cold - they’re certainly far enough up north for it to be the case. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert ushers him into the town car, and the drive is spent in relative silence. Jaskier watches Lambert engrossed on his phone, alternating between idle scrolling and typing furiously, and feels his own phone burn a hole in his pocket. At Lambert’s urging, he’d turned it off shortly after they boarded the jet, and he’s yet to turn it back on. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lambert,” Jaskier calls, waiting until those amber eyes are on him before continuing, “do you know - uh - when I’ll be able to tell Priscilla where I am?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Priscilla.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My roommate.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Lambert sets aside his own phone. “Probably after you meet with the Wolf. We’ll have to check your phone to make sure it hasn’t been bugged, but you’ll get it back right after.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier feels a vague rush of desperation at the answer and tries to protest. “Couldn’t I text her from your phone now? She’s probably out of her mind with worry and I’d hate to wait until morning -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Morning?” Lambert cuts in, confused. Comprehension suddenly floods his features. “No, songbird. You’re meeting with the Wolf </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They’re all expecting us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s mouth clicks shut abruptly. “Oh,” he manages lamely, feeling a rush of nervousness all of a sudden. He hadn’t exactly thought he’d be meeting the fucking crime lord boss of the Order of the Wolf at three in the godsdamn morning. “And he’s awake?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Jaskier,” Lambert says wryly. “He’s awake.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t talk again until they arrive at the mansion. Jaskier’s jaw positively drops open when he sees it. It’s nestled at the top of a winding mountain, behind huge iron security gates, and with a driveway that seems to extend forever, all smoothened white gravel. The mansion is made of reinforced sandstone, with several towers and a pointed brick rooftop. Not so much a mansion as a veritable fortress, Jaskier thinks dizzily, and he wonders if the mansion could have been a castle, in another time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on songbird.” Lambert claps him on the shoulder, and Jaskier follows him out of the car. A woman with rings of auburn curls and a bemused smile is already waiting for them at the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Never could keep excitement to a respectable hour, could you, Lambert?” she says by way of greeting, and the witcher grins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know me Triss,” Lambert replies amiably. “Have to keep everyone on their toes. This is Jaskier by the way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her brown eyes flicker over to him. “It’s good to meet you Jaskier,” Triss says, beckoning them inside and leading them down a darkened hallway. “Everyone’s already waiting for you in the office.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So I’ve heard,” Jaskier mutters, but he must not be quiet enough because Triss lets out a low laugh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep that plucky attitude. It’ll serve you well,” she says without a hint of sarcasm, and Jaskier flushes as if he’s been caught. They come to a stop in front of a heavy oak door. “I’m going to need your phone and then you can just head on inside.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier glances at Lambert, who shrugs and mouths an “I told you so,” before sighing and fishing his phone from his pocket. “Right,” he mutters, dropping the mobile in Triss’s outstretched palm.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he follows Lambert into the office -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And is immediately greeted by four pairs of very keen eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The office, despite its name, is more of a rather large sitting room, expansive and lavishly furnished. There are portraits hanging on the walls, leather loveseats and sofas, a low-hanging crystal chandelier, and a bar cart filled with decanters of all shapes and sizes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the center of it is an oval table, thick and expensive-looking, around which four people are sat. “Boss,” Lambert greets with a short, perfunctory bow, before he too takes a seat. Jaskier bites down on the urge to gulp nervously as he sits himself right beside Lambert. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Immediately across from him is possibly the most attractive man he’s ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on - the White Wolf, he presumes, if the shock of silver-white hair is of any indication. A chiseled jawline with a hint of scruff, golden amber eyes, and thick, corded muscles hidden beneath a navy jumper. The silver-white hair is pulled into a low ponytail, the golden eyes fixed intently on Jaskier. Jaskier tries not to squirm under that piercing gaze. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To the White Wolf’s right is a stunning, raven-haired woman with purple eyes. She’s fresh-faced, free of any makeup, and wearing a billowing emerald nightgown. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So this is the singer we’ve all been dragged out of bed for,” she remarks with an arched eyebrow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shoots a quick glance at Lambert before nodding, chin titled confidently. “My name is Jaskier,” he says, pleased when his voice doesn’t tremble. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Like the flower? A cute little stage name then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My preferred name, actually.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The woman’s eyes flash, and she looks vaguely impressed with him. “Very well,” she says. “My name is Yennefer. Lead sorceress for the Order. This is Eskel,” she points to the man on the other side of the White Wolf. He’s got thick, chin-length black hair, and huge scars mar one half of his face, although they do nothing to impede his handsomeness. A wolf medallion also sits at his throat, and he’s looking at Jaskier with a kind, open smile. “The White Wolf’s second in command. And this is Vesemir. The White Wolf’s closest advisor.” Yennefer gestures to the older man with long, silver hair sitting next to Eskel. He too has golden eyes - like Eskel, like Lambert, like the White Wolf - and Jaskier begins to wonder if it’s a witcher thing. If it has something to do with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>trials </span>
  </em>
  <span>witchers go through to earn that mantle. “I imagine Geralt needs no introduction.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes involuntary lock with those of the White Wolf. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So that’s who Geralt is. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He swallows thickly. “You imagine right,” he murmurs, a little hoarsely. Those eyes have yet to stray from his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lambert tells us some hired guns were after you. That there may be more than the ones he’s taken care of,” Eskel says, and Jaskier tears his eyes away from Geralt to look at the dark-haired witcher. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you know who sent them? And why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier inhales, quick and sharp, feeling a little bold. “How much did Lambert tell you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Enough. But tell us what you think.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This time, it’s the White Wolf who speaks. Jaskier very nearly staggers. Geralt’s voice is low, husky and rumbling, like gravel, and drops like liquid heat down Jaskier’s spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s so compelling his mouth is opening to answer before he’s fully thought it through, “I’m not sure, but I - I think it might be Queen Calanthe of Cintra.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The temperature drops considerably in the room, everyone tensing subtly at the mention of the monarch’s name. Jaskier licks his lips nervously, trying to calm the wild thrumming of his heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Vesemir breaks the oppressive silence with a disbelieving snort. “Why would the south’s most powerful monarch want some lowly singer </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wrote a song. Posted it online and it’s gotten...quite a bit of interest. Not all good, clearly,” Jaskier replies, trying not to let the older witcher’s words sting so much. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer tilts her head curiously. “And this song mentions Calanthe?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, not her specifically. Just the kind of xenophobic policies she promotes, and how much better off our Continent would be if we led with the assumption that all beings are equal,” Jaskier says, shrugging. “Kind of an implied fuck you to her and any other monarch who still think humans are superior. It’s called </span>
  <em>
    <span>I can imagine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why?” It’s Geralt who speaks again. “Why make a song that would put you in this kind of danger?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are five pairs of eyes regarding Jaskier now, and his heart picks up. This is it; this is the moment where he has to prove himself to the Order, the White Wolf, and those closest to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier licks his lips nervously. “You can change people’s minds with music. You can challenge their assumptions - make them see that there is a better way to do things. These policies are fucking bullshit, and Calanthe deserves to be called out,” he murmurs. His eyes remain steadily on Geralt and he tilts his chin confidently. “Maybe I didn’t think Calanthe would care about a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lowly singer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but even if I did, I’d do it again in a fucking heartbeat. People deserve to know that they matter.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart is beating so hard and so quickly in his chest Jaskier is sure everyone in the room can hear it. His hands are fisted so tightly on the table his knuckles have whitened. It feels like the silence stretches on for a lifetime. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyes are intense and inscrutable and so very </span>
  <em>
    <span>gold </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he looks at him. His nostrils are flaring ever so slightly. “Hm. You’re not lying,” he states it like a fact, and Jaskier blinks, surprised. “Foolish, but brave. You will stay here and be under the Order’s protection. No one, not even Calanthe, will lay a hand on you. You have my word.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I -” Jaskier is oddly tongue-tied, overwhelmed with emotion. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yen will get you set up with the rest.” The shadow of a smile crosses Geralt’s face and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it makes him so much more attractive. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His name shouldn’t sound so good, wrapped around that mouth, and yet, he feels himself flush from the tips of his ears all the way down to his chest. Jaskier’s heart has picked up speed once more; his hands are clammy, his breath coming in short spurts. He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his dreams will be filled with that low gravelly voice and those molten gold eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jaskier thinks to himself with no small amount of alarm, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I think I’m in love. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The White Wolf dismisses the meeting without much fanfare, and when Jaskier leaves the office, Triss is already outside the door waiting for him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Phone’s clean,” she says, handing him back the device. He nods at her, grateful. They’ve already turned it back on, and Jaskier tries not to wince at the flurry of frantic missed calls and messages from Priscilla. He desperately wants to call, but makes do with a text that he hopes conveys the strangeness of his current circumstances.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s barely hit send when he feels warm fingers press at his elbow, and looks up to meet Yennefer’s gaze. “Ready?” she asks, and Jaskier nods, following close behind her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ll be in the eastern wing of the manor, with the rest of us. Most of the Witchers live in their own flats all over Kaer Morhen, but a few of us live here,” she explains, as they walk down the corridor. “Easier for Geralt to have us all in one place.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods absently as if talking about the living arrangements of the most infamous crime lord in all of the Continent is the most normal thing in the world when it is anything but. “Thank you,” he says, “for - well, for everything, really. Tonight has been...gods,” he trails off, unable to find the right words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer is looking at him as if she understands, a small smile on her face. “No need to thank us. You did well in there. It’s rare that someone impresses Geralt as thoroughly as you have.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I impressed him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not a lot of people are willing to take a stand the way you did. Especially not for those less fortunate than they are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well,” Jaskier says with a noncommittal shrug. “Better I than someone who can’t afford to take the heat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a pain that seeps into his words, one that doesn’t escape Yennefer’s notice. “Speaking from personal experience,” she surmises, eyes narrowed shrewdly, and oh, the sorceress is </span>
  <em>
    <span>good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Too good. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He takes a breath at the deep sting of pain that shoots through his chest. “My mother was an elf. And Cintran, which is just as bad of a combination as you can imagine. My father, he didn’t care, but when everyone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> found out a human man and an elven woman had a child together -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t bother finishing that sentence; he doesn’t have to. The subtlest of flinches crosses Yennefer’s face. Fraternization between humans and non-humans is still frowned upon, and in certain countries, downright forbidden. His parents’ union was one doomed from the start, although no one could have predicted that Jaskier’s mother would </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span> because she not only dared love a human, but birthed him a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Yennefer says sincerely, and Jaskier has the distinct impression that those two words don’t leave the sorceress’s mouth often. “Calanthe has always been a horrendous fucking bitch. Rest assured, she’ll never dare try to touch you here. She’s too scared of Geralt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier blinks, surprised. “She is?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yes,” Yennefer continues almost conversationally, “most monarchs on the Continent are. The Order has this nasty reputation with the public, but the truth is, monarchs and all those shit-for-brains nobles rely on witchers to dispatch of the monsters running rampant through their lands and kingdoms. In exchange for a fee, of course.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And the fee -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pays for all of this. Lodging, clothes, training, among other things. I’m assuming that’s not what you’ve been told about witchers, if you’ve been told anything at all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Jaskier murmurs after a while, his mind reeling. “No it’s not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’ve stopped in front of one of the many doors lining the hallway - his room, he presumes. Yennefer pops the door open and leads Jaskier inside. It’s fairly simple and sparsely furnished. There’s a queen-sized bed in the center with a rich, burgundy comforter, a nightstand, a closet, and a desk with an office chair off to the side. The room has an adjoining bathroom with a couple of towels and some basic toiletries. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s not much in here, but it should do for tonight at least. I can have a mage portal to your place in the morning and grab some things for you,” Yennefer offers, and it’s unexpected, but not unwelcome, and Jaskier finds himself smiling genuinely. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That would be lovely,” he admits. “My roommate - I texted her but could someone just fill her in on all the details? I don’t - I don’t want her to worry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer pauses, considering. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Some </span>
  </em>
  <span>details,” she concedes eventually. “It’s best she knows as little as possible. For your safety and hers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” Jaskier murmurs, and then, feeling ridiculously bold, “Will you tell me more?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About what?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Witchers. How they live, what they do. I’m going to live among them now, aren’t I? I ought to know the truth from the lies.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits with bated breath as Yennefer considers his request. “You should sleep Jaskier,” she says and Jaskier very nearly flinches from the rejection, when Yennefer tempers it. “Tomorrow, if you’d still like to know all there is to know about witchers, I will gladly serve as your guide through Kaer Morhen. But you’ve had quite a night, and you should sleep it off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I suppose I should,” Jaskier says, and he suddenly feels exhausted all at once. The adrenaline has finally worked its way out of his body, the weight of his evening is finally impressing upon him, like he’s coming down from a particularly bad trip. “Thank you, Yennefer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sorceress leaves with another comforting press to his shoulder. Jaskier kicks off his shoes and takes his shirt off before crawling into the queen bed, burrowing himself deep in the plush, warm blankets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And dreams of piercing amber eyes and silver-white hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer comes knocking on his door mid-morning. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I believe I promised you a tour of the city, if you’re still interested,” she says by way of greeting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jaskier says, a little breathless and a touch too enthusiastic. “Definitely still interested.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They take Yennefer’s car - a sleek, black Audi that purrs like a cat and drives like a dream - making casual conversation as they drive down the winding mountain road. He’s surprised to find himself actively enjoying his time with Yennefer, who is equal parts terrifying and inspiring, and all around delightful company. At one point, Yennefer grabs Jaskier’s address and texts it to the mage who’ll be portalling to Posada to collect his things. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks of Priscilla, and his stomach gives an involuntary lurch, his mood immediately dampening. They spoke on the phone earlier this morning, and though she’d been confused and surprised and worried out of her mind, Priscilla understood why Jaskier had to remain hidden for the time being. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know this is for the best Jask and I’m glad you’re safe,” she’d murmured towards the end. “I just miss you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d closed his eyes against the burn of tears beneath his lids. “I miss you too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer bumps his shoulder, startling Jaskier out of his spiraling thoughts. “We’re here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he’d driven through Kaer Morhen with Lambert, Jaskier hadn’t been able to see much of the city under the cover of darkness. In the light of day, he can clearly see the sheer vastness of the city, easily triple the size of Posada, and surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The streets are lined with all manners of shops, pubs, and restaurants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it’s the people flitting about these streets that have Jaskier’s jaw dropping. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Elves, dwarves, gnomes,” he breathes, eyes wide. “Co-existing with humans? Peacefully? How?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Kaer Morhen lives by a different set of rules than the rest of the Continent - better rules,” Yennefer says, parking the car near a charming little cafe. “Come on - let’s have breakfast.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In between sips of steaming, full-bodied coffee and bites of freshly-baked scones, Yennefer talks and Jaskier listens, speechless for once, and completely entranced. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Witchers aren’t ruthless, lawless mercenaries like high-brow society wants you to believe. They are a creed, bound by oath to the Order and the White Wolf. What they do,” Yennefer says, “is provide a service.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Killing monsters,” Jaskier recalls, “in exchange for payment.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. Monarchs and nobles contract witchers to get rid of those monsters. Witchers pour most of the money from their contracts right back into Kaer Morhen. The rest goes into providing protections for nonhumans.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Protections?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Any nonhuman that wants sanctuary in Kaer Morhen gets it; if they want safe passage through a particularly hostile part of the Continent, witchers will accompany them; if there is a monster in their towns or neighborhoods, witchers will kill it for free.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier feels like he’s been gut-punched, the wind entirely knocked out of him. He’s blinking rapidly, trying to organize the swarm of thoughts running through his mind. “Why?” he croaks out eventually. He thinks of his mother and swallows around the lump in his throat. “Why do this for nonhumans?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer shrugs. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Because witchers are also nonhumans, but they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>powerful </span>
  </em>
  <span>nonhumans, and no king or queen would dare mess with them. Because Geralt decreed it as such when he took over the Order a decade ago, and witchers are loyal to the White Wolf.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The mention of Geralt makes Jaskier’s back straighten and his heart race involuntarily. He tried hard not to think about Geralt today, but the White Wolf hadn’t strayed far from the edges of his mind, and Yennefer’s brought him at the full-front. “Geralt,” he repeats through parched lips, “Geralt’s the one who decided witchers should protect nonhumans in addition to hunting monsters?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but with the power and resources of the Order behind him. Perhaps now you understand why he was particularly...</span>
  <em>
    <span>impressed </span>
  </em>
  <span>with you,” Jaskier’s ears grow hot and Yennefer smiles, all sharp and white teeth, like she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span>, “and why he’s agreed to protect you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart is still beating too quickly, and Jaskier desperately tries to hide his flustered expression behind the rim of his mug, taking a hearty sip of coffee. All his thoughts are of witchers and honor and bravery and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier spends the rest of the day of Yennefer, who graciously answers each and everyone of his burning questions as she shows him the rest of Kaer Morhen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re free to roam through the city as you please, obviously,” Yennefer says. “We’ll get you set up with a bike or a car so you can come down on your own.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A bike would be great,” Jaskier replies. He’s never liked driving. Besides, he’d much rather set down the mountain with a bike than in a car. Better to take in the truly impressive sights of the north. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sorceress shows him the witcher training grounds; there’s a sprawling field with manicured grass where a few witchers are running drills, a ring off to the side for wrestling, another for fencing, a gym, and an indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool. Jaskier spies Lambert and Eskel among the group of witchers, and briefly wonders if Geralt comes here to train too. He watches, oddly fascinated, at the speed and force with which the witchers train, the sheer strength they display, and remembers what Yennefer’s shared with him earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said witchers are nonhumans,” he says. “Does it have to do with the trials?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer nods, solemn. “The Trial of the Grasses makes witchers who and what they are. Their senses, their strength - it all becomes...enhanced. Mutated by magic.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like it would be painful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It could be. But only the ones who survive undergo the trials now. Geralt made sure of that. It’s one of the reasons witchers are loyal to the White Wolf.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods to himself, gaze fixed intently on the training witchers. Everything he’s learned about witchers so far has flown in the face of what he’s been taught about them. He’s been so misled he thinks; everyone has. By power-hungry monarchs intent on keeping the status quo. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a song in there somewhere, the beginning notes of it tugging at Jaskier’s mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What about you, Yennefer?” he speaks up again, glancing over at the sorceress with interest. “Why are you loyal to the White Wolf? A sorceress like you, I imagine, could’ve had a lofty position with a monarch of her choosing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer laughs seemingly not offended. “As a matter of fact I did. So did Triss, and all the other mages here. But Geralt offered us something better, away from the ambitious and political motivations of the rich and powerful. He offered </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>something I could not refuse.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s definitely a song here somewhere, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier thinks dizzily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What was it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer’s smile turns mysterious. “You’ll see.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they return to the White Wolf’s mansion, Yennefer is very nearly bowled over by a small, mighty thing with moonlit hair and huge green eyes. “Yen! Where have you been all day?” the little girl demands. She looks to be no more than eight years old. “I missed you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I missed you too, Ciri, darling,” Yennefer chuckles, kneeling to give the girl a hug. “But I had to give our new guest a tour. Ciri, meet Jaskier. Jaskier, this is Ciri. The White Wolf’s child and heir.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The White Wolf has a child? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier does a fairly good job of hiding his surprise, schooling his features into perfect pleasantness. “It’s nice to meet you, Ciri,” he says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The little girl regards him very seriously, eyebrows slightly scrunched. Now that he knows who she is, the resemblance is clear. She carries herself exactly like her father. “Nice to meet you too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier spies the unmistakable fondness in Yennefer’s expression as she regards Ciri, and knows, deep in his bones, what she’d been offered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: um, so a mage just SHOWED up in the middle of our flat and nearly gave me a heart attack. Said he was picking up your things??</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: ah yeaaah my bad. Should’ve given you a heads up. Are you okay?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: besides the heart attack? I’m fine. Made sure he took three full suitcases with him</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: + your lute </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage]: Jaskier: fuck i love you</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t bother to hide his surprise when he opens his door to find Eskel behind it. “Oh,” he says, “hello.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m not interrupting am I?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No not at all. Come in,” Jaskier opens the door wider. “I was just unpacking my stuff. Sorry about the mess.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel looks around the room, now littered with three open suitcases and clothes, belts, and shoes all strewn about, bemused. Jaskier flushes. “I can see that. Is that a lute?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um yeah. Good eye,” Jaskier says. “So, ah, anything I can do for you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dinner. Everyone who lives in the mansion eats dinner together. Came to grab you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s - that’s very kind. Is, um, dinner right this second?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel grins knowingly. “Do you need a minute to freshen up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please.” Jaskier makes a grab for one of his many colorful jumpers and a pair of jeans before diving into the bathroom. “Sorry I’ve been in the same clothes for twenty-four hours and I just really need to...</span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be anymore.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No need to be sorry,” Eskel says pleasantly behind the door as Jaskier swabs some deodorant and puts on the fresh jumper and jeans. He combs nervous fingers through his hair, feeling an overwhelming urge to look put together. “How’re you adjusting?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier dabs some cologne behind his ears, his throat, and his wrists. He fights the urge to reach for the bottle of mouthwash. His breath is fine, probably. “I think okay,” he answers honestly, looping his favorite silver chain around his neck. “Yennefer took me on a tour of the city and, you know - don’t get the feeling she does that often.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” Eskel agrees with a chuckle. “She really doesn’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier takes a deep, steadying breath, before opening the door. Eskel’s leaning over his desk, arms crossed, a smile curling at his lips. “Ready?” the witcher asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As I’ll ever be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dinner at the White Wolf’s manor turns out to be quite the rambunctious affair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dining table seats at least ten, and there’s laughter, good-natured teasing, food, and alcohol in abundance. Jaskier can’t help feeling awkward, sandwiched between so many people who obviously care for and respect each other a great deal, sticking out like a sore thumb among the crowd of witchers and sorceresses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s Geralt, sitting at the head of the table. He’s in a simple black cotton shirt and leather plants. Jaskier thinks he spies blood at the hem, and wonders if Geralt is only recently back from a contract himself; if the White Wolf still takes on contracts. His dishevelment doesn’t take away from his handsomeness - only adds to it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel and Vesemir sit to Geralt’s right; Yennefer sits to his left. Ciri is sat in a smaller chair between Yennefer and Geralt, and the three of them spend most of dinner engrossed in conversation. Geralt wears this painfully gorgeous smile the entire time Ciri talks, and even Yennefer looks hopelessly smitten. They look like a family - a proper one - and Jaskier turns his head away, feeling like he’s intruding on something precious and incredibly private, and tries to focus on the conversation at his side of the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luckily as it were, he finds himself seated next to Lambert and directly across from Triss, both easy conversationalists and funny as all hell. They descend into an animated debate about the merits of seedy dive bars. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>the place I rescued Blue Eyes here from, Triss,” Lambert says, as Jaskier scoffs in mock outrage. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If we’re getting technical, you rescued me on a </span>
  <em>
    <span>street</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And that bar is a fucking hidden gem, thank you very much,” Jaskier sniffs. Triss laughs. “Also Blue Eyes instead of songbird? Not an improvement in case you were wondering.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take this the wrong way Jaskier,” Triss says, “but I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type to enjoy seedy dive bars.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it because I look too posh for dive bars? You can say yes, I won’t be offended.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a trap Triss, he will </span>
  <em>
    <span>absolutely </span>
  </em>
  <span>get offended -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh hush, Lambert. Nobody asked you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a snort from the other side of the table. “If you enjoy dive bars Jaskier,” Eskel pipes up, to Jaskier’s surprise, “you’ll love </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Last Rose</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Triss’s eyes light up. “Oh yes! We’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to take you there sometime. They do music nights there too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’s their alcohol selection?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Better than the one at the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Edge of the World </span>
  </em>
  <span>that’s for sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lambert for the love of Melitele, would you </span>
  <em>
    <span>please </span>
  </em>
  <span>stop denigrating my favorite establishment -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The conversation continues like that for a while, and Jaskier finds himself even more surprised when </span>
  <em>
    <span>other </span>
  </em>
  <span>witchers join in on the conversation. He feels a hot burning gaze on him, and Jaskier looks up to find none other than the White Wolf staring at him, a curious expression on his face. He finds himself growing hot, and quickly averts his gaze, trying desperately to calm his racing heart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly overwhelmed and feeling a little bit out of place, Jaskier quietly excuses himself after he’s eaten his fill, in search of the music room Yennefer had pointed out for him earlier. He’d retreat to his room and grab his lute, but he doesn’t want to be rude. Luckily, he finds the music room easily enough and slips in. The sleek, midnight black piano is calling for him, and Jaskier takes a seat, fingers skimming over the ivory keys. He inhales, soft and slow, the tension already receding from his muscles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then he begins to play.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He runs a few scales, just for practice, before he sinks into a soft, mournful song. One he’d composed during his first year at Oxenfurt, after Valdo Marx - that son of a bitch - broke his heart and passed off Jaskier’s best song as his own. It’s filled with quiet, angry intensity, and Jaskier hums the lyrics under his breath, fingers flying over the keys effortlessly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is so engrossed he doesn’t realize that there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>people </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the room with him until he’s through his song -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Ciri and Geralt not a meter away from him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She heard you play,” Geralt explains, hand ruffling his daughter’s hair. “Thought we’d come see. Is that okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is that okay? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier thinks hysterically to himself. Out loud, he says, “Of - of course.” His eyes meet Ciri’s and he smiles. “What did you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The song was sad,” she says, almost matter-of-fact, “but you’re really good. Wasn’t he good, Dad?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s mouth curls. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> attractive. Jaskier tries not to stare. “He was.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Melitele help him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um, thank you,” Jaskier says, as graciously as possible. “I know some happy songs too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri perks up. “You do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. I can play them for you sometime if you’d like.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you play me a little bit now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course.” Jaskier quickly plays a fun little tune, unable to stop himself from grinning when Ciri claps along delighted. He chances a quick glance at Geralt, who is still smiling that gorgeous little half-smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their eyes meet for one breathless, electrifying moment. Jaskier is certain that he’s blushing like a teenager dealing with their first crush. He clears his throat, returning his focus on Ciri. “What did you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was awesome!” she exclaims with sparkling green eyes. “Will you teach me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Jaskier was not expecting </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I - um - it’s okay with me, but I think you should run it by your dad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri obediently tilts her chin up to look at Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” the White Wolf says. His eyes are trained steadily on Jaskier. “If you’re sure, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“More than sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then it’s fine with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh good!” Ciri says, hand curling around Jaskier’s arm excitedly. It should disarm him, how easily the little girl has seemingly taken to him, but he finds that it doesn’t; only fills his heart with warmth. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>being liked by kids. This kid especially. “Maybe we can start as soon as tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier smiles. “If you’d like.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can you play something else? Please?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course. What would you like?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something you could teach me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier picks another happy song - an easy, bubbly jig he’d learned when he was around Ciri’s age himself - as she makes herself more comfortable next to him. He plays and plays and plays, delighting in all of Ciri’s reactions and exclamations. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t miss the fact that Geralt stays too, lips upturned and golden eyes never once leaving Jaskier. It leaves his blood singing in his veins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s late when Ciri finally tires from hearing Jaskier play. She lets out a long, plaintive yawn as Geralt picks her up, and falls asleep with her face tucked into his neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier stands up, hand scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Ah, sorry for keeping her up,” he says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt shakes his head. “She needs the entertainment,” he replies, fond. He gestures for Jaskier to follow and they both exit the music room. Jaskier still hears laughter coming from the dining room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got yourself quite the lively crowd,” he remarks off-handedly, and is ridiculously pleased when it earns him the smallest of smiles from Geralt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” the witcher says. Then, after a beat, “You fit in well.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - I do?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt nods. “It’s a good thing. Kaer Morhen’s your home now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier has no good concept of what that word actually means. Ilona had died when he was too young, and his father had been too consumed by grief to bother being a parent. His grandparents, too ashamed and disgusted to want to raise a half-ling, had shipped him off to boarding school as soon as they were able. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oxenfurt had been a sort of a home, but Jaskier had always known that it would be temporary, and tried hard not to form any sort of permanent attachment to the university. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla has always been the closest thing he’s ever had to family. Moving to Posada was supposed to be their chance at creating a home together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But, well -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Home,” Jaskier repeats, heart twisting with longing. “Is it that easy?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It can. If you want it to be.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wets his lips. “I think I’d quite like that. Thank you - for opening your home to me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like rebels,” Geralt says simply, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jaskier feels like the breath’s been knocked out of him, rendered truly and properly speechless. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I like you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks with an intensity that surprises him. He’s always been one to fall hard and fast in love - a poor quality in someone who’s always longed for a home - but this feels different somehow. Deeper. More real. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gods help him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt hoists Ciri more firmly up in his arms. The little girl barely stirs. “You should head back in there,” he says, gesturing towards the dining room. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um, yeah,” Jaskier says, blinking rapidly. “I think - I think I will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt nods. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He likes the way the White Wolf says his name. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Goodnight, Geralt.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier has been at Kaer Morhen for a little over a month now, and his days have fully settled into a routine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He teaches Ciri piano every other day at ten in the morning. She takes to it like a duck to water, and they soon progress from scales and simple pieces to ones with a bit more complexity. Yennefer and Triss have taken to bringing him to their own little space within the manor, a cross between an office and an alchemy lab where they brew potions and review the various contracts that come in for the witchers. Eventually, Jaskier is allowed to help with both; the show of implicit trust meaning more to him than he can ever put into words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he’s not teaching Ciri, or helping out the sorceresses, Jaskier takes his bike into the city. Eskel had procured it for him only three days after he’d arrived. Brand new and painted a bright cherry red with a beige leather seat, he half-jokingly names it Pegasus, and rides it nearly everywhere. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier gets to know the various shops in town; he has a favorite restaurant, a favorite coffee shop, where the owner is a lovely elven woman who always gives him a cup of tea on the house, a favorite pub and bar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On certain weeknights, he goes with Triss and Lambert to </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Last Rose </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have a pint and some good bar food. Eskel and Yennefer will sometimes join them, and so will Gweld, Aubry, and Coën. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier is surprised how much he comes to enjoy those evenings, and his time in Kaer Morhen in general. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The highlight of his day continues to be dinner, when everyone sits at the opulent dining table in the White Wolf’s mansion and shares a meal. Jaskier will eat and make conversation, and be keenly aware of Geralt, sitting at the head, as dangerously attractive as always. Geralt, who never fails to keep Ciri entertained, who will share words with Eskel or Yennefer or even Vesemir -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Who will meet Jaskier’s gaze from time to time and let his mouth curl, and make Jaskier’s heart race and his mouth dry. He’d hoped his little crush on Geralt was nothing more than that - a passing crush. But it’s a month later and he’s just as hopelessly infatuated as he was on that first night Geralt had welcomed him to Kaer Morhen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shakes the thoughts of Geralt away and bikes more determinedly towards the witcher training grounds. Lately, he’s taken to doing drills with the witchers - nothing too intensive, just a few sets and reps that he can reasonably keep up with. It’s good exercise, and gives him the opportunity to learn more about what the witchers do straight from the horse’s mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There you are Jaskier,” Eskel greets him as Jaskier locks up his bike. “Wasn’t sure if you were coming.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you kidding?” Jaskier lobs back with a grin. “Wouldn’t miss this for the world.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert and Aubry are already warming up by the track; Eskel and Jaskier join them in a few stretches, Jaskier’s joints popping as he extends his arms high up over his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gonna run a few laps with us today, Blue Eyes?” Lambert asks, teasing, and Jaskier’s eyes automatically narrow at the challenge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t see why not,” he sniffs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aubry lets out a low laugh. “Your mistake.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It does indeed, turn out to be a mistake. Jaskier can only run a couple laps with the witchers before he has to slow down, panting and drenched with sweat, eventually collapsing on the manicured field. Lambert runs by him with a grin, and Jaskier promptly gives him the finger, even as he tries to catch his breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He feels, more than sees, someone sit next to him, and turns his head to see its Eskel, golden eyes sparkling with amusement. “Fuck,” Jaskier says, a little strangled. “Remind me never to run with witchers ever again. Gods, how fast can you even run?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Faster than that. Come on, want to do a few sets with me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not even a little bit. Eskel do you not see me dying here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Gods’ sake Jaskier, you’re not dying,” Eskel says with fond exasperation. “Let’s do a few sets together and I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier eyes him suspiciously, but eventually complies. The workout is brutal - they bicep curls, lunges, crunches, squats, planks, and push ups. There’s a persistent ache running through all of Jaskier’s muscles, and his workout clothes are positively drenched, hair damp, plastered to his forehead, and curling a little from the sweat. “Enough,” he gasps out. “I’m done.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel looks like he’s biting down on a laugh. “You’re done,” he agrees, tossing him a water bottle, which Jaskier drinks from in huge, greedy gulps. Behind him, Jaskier thinks he hears Lambert positively cackle, and throws up his middle finger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You promised you’d make this...torture worth my while,” Jaskier says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He waggles his eyebrows. “How are you going to do that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel helps him up, gesturing to Lambert and Aubry. “I have just the thing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kaer Morhen is, apparently, home to a huge network of natural hot springs, comfortably lodged in the mountain. There’s a glorious, unrestricted view of the sky, and the sulfur and mineral-rich water is deliciously warm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s mouth positively drops when the witchers show him the springs. Eskel laughs at his expression, taking him to the adjoining dress rooms to strip and store their clothes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How did I not know about this place until now?” Jaskier asks, looking at the witchers somewhat accusingly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert shrugs, diving into one of the many showers to quickly rinse off both grime and sweat. “You weren’t worthy before. Now, you are.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hears the red-headed witcher laugh even from his own, curtained-off shower. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think I’m your type, Blue Eyes. Maybe if my hair was more silver and -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, don’t finish that sentence,” Jaskier interrupts, fighting hard not to choke, and blushing all the way to the roots of his hair. He steps out of the shower at the same time as Lambert and a few of the other witchers do, a fluffy white towel wrapped around his hips. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert raises his hands in mock surrender, smiling wide and looking positively unrepentant. “Am I wrong though?” he says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t bother to deign him with a reply, only mutters a few choice words under his breath about witchers and their godsdamn enhanced senses. Leaving his towel on the many hooks lining the walls, Jaskier steps into one of the hot springs, joining Eskel and Aubry. A pleased hum leaves his throat as the hot water envelopes him, sore muscles loosening with the heat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eskel you sure know how to hold up a bargain,” Jaskier comments, words slurring a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel chuckles, “I take it you like the springs.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm.” Jaskier lets his eyes drift shut, leans his head against the smoothened rock of the spring, and fucking basks. He hears the faint sounds of splashing and conversation, but he doesn’t really pay them any mind, content to just soak in the pleasantly hot water, letting it soothe his exercise-ridden body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s fairly sure he’s about to properly doze off when Eskel says, loud and warm, “Ah, Geralt! So nice of you to join us,” and Jaskier’s eyes snap open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sure enough, just across from him in the mid-sized pool, is the White Wolf himself in all of his glorious nakedness. His chest is bare and glistening; scars dot the flat ridge of his abdominals, his thick arms, his thighs. There’s a tattoo of twin swords overlaid with a wolf’s head on his right pectoral. His silver-white hair, usually pulled at the temples and tied in a half-up, half-down ponytail, is down in all of its glory, </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier fights hard to temper his desire. Witchers, he knows, can smell arousal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Contract went long,” Geralt explains, propping up his arms on the edges of the spring. His face turns somber. “Striga.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A solemn silence descends in the pool. Jaskier wracks his brain, trying to recall what his </span>
  <em>
    <span>Beasts and Monsters of the Continent</span>
  </em>
  <span> professor had to say about strigas. He straightens, suddenly filled with curiosity. “Did you break it?” he asks, and it feels like every single pair of golden eyes in the spring is on him, but Jaskier is only completely entranced by one.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt tilts his head as he regards him. “Hm?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The curse,” Jaskier clarifies. “Strigas - they’re women who were cursed, aren’t they?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Very good, Blue Eyes,” Lambert says. “Looks like they taught you a thing or two at that pompous academy of yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t you study music though, Jaskier? How in the world would you learn about monsters?” Eskel asks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I studied a lot of things. Well-rounded education and all that,” Jaskier says, waving him off, his eyes still fixed on Geralt. “Did you manage to break it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt tips his chin ever so slightly. “I did,” something flickers over his expression. “Still couldn’t save her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t have to be a witcher to know that sadness and regret tinge Geralt’s words. His heart twists. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt holds his gaze. Jaskier quite likes the idea of being the sole focus of those golden eyes. “Don’t be. You’re not the one who cursed her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You got the fucker that did though, didn’t you, White Wolf?” Lambert says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s dead,” Geralt confirms. “It doesn’t bring her back. But it might bring her peace.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the most heartfelt, most noble, most poetic thing Jaskier’s ever heard, and he’s a little breathless with it. Every day that he thinks he has witchers - that he has Geralt - finally figured out, he is knocked over once more by their strong morals and code of ethics; steady and brave and true unlike the pompous, greedy, and fickle kings and queens of the lands. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did your best to save her,” Jaskier murmurs, feeling ridiculously brave. “That’s more than most people would.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Witchers aren’t most people,” Geralt replies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I guess they aren’t,” Jaskier says. There’s a song forming in his mind, bubbling up in his throat. “Thank the gods for that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s lips curl. “Hm.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s something in his eyes that Jaskier can’t decipher but that sends a thrill down his spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: I can’t believe you got to hang out in a hot spring with a bunch of gorgeous naked men. So jel</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: believe it. My life’s really turned around hasn’t it </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: are you planning any more sexy times with Geralt thooo</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: Melitele’s tits Pri</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: I’m not planning any sexy times with Geralt</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: oh don’t lie to me. you sooo want that dick </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: stfu </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: *kissing emoji* love you make good choices!!</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier spends most of his afternoons that week writing and composing a new song. The lyrics spring in his mind faster than he can write them, the melody already on his lips. He writes it out furiously; commits it all to paper, inspired only in the way he’s ever been once before, when he was first composing</span>
  <em>
    <span> I can imagine.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He plays the first chords of it on his lute, humming the first words under his breath and it makes his blood roar in his ears. This is something special - he has something special here, he can feel it. Perhaps, a chance to change the way the Continent thinks about witchers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s not ready yet, Jaskier really shouldn’t get ahead of himself, but he feels alive with opportunity. He’s always been at his most energetic when composing a new song. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You seem happy,” Ciri comments, as they sit down for their piano lesson. She starts on her scales before Jaskier even tells her to, an act that has his chest fit to burst with pride. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m always happy, little one. Especially when I get to hang out with my favorite student.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri giggles. “I’m your only student.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Still my favorite,” Jaskier hums. He adjusts the song book on the music shelf, flipping to the most recent song they’d been practicing. “Let’s do this one again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri’s reading music pretty well now, and has no problem sliding into the song, a ballad great for beginners. Jaskier has to correct the placement of her hands only once or twice, otherwise her form and rhythm are impeccable. “You’re getting really good, Ciri,” he says, and the girl flushes with pride. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Jask,” she says, the nickname rolling off her tongue easily. She looks up at him once she finishes up the song, green eyes brimming with curiosity. “You’re working on a new song, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can I hear it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Jaskier says, a little awkwardly. “It’s not actually ready yet.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri turns up the full force of her big eyes on him. “Please?” she begs, and Jaskier has to press his lips together to keep from smiling, his will already crumbling. She’s going to be an utter menace when she grows up, he just knows it. Ciri already has most of the witchers and the sorceresses in Kaer Morhen wrapped around her smart, nimble little fingers. Gods help them all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, alright,” he relents, to a delighted squeal from Ciri. “You’re too good at that, you know?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know what you mean,” Ciri says honestly, and Jaskier laughs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grabs the acoustic guitar from its stand, moving to sit beside Ciri on the piano bench once more. Ciri scoots a little, already vibrating with excitement, giving Jaskier plenty of room to be able to hoist the guitar up comfortably. He’d composed the song to be played on his lute, but it’ll sound just as good on the guitar. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hums a few warm-up notes to himself, before he launches into his song. He’s tentatively titled it </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wolves</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the simplicity of it belying the sheer intensity and power of the song’s message. Jaskier watches Ciri’s expression morph as he plays the song, going from one of general excitement to something more profound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he finishes, she launches herself into his arms, nearly knocking him over. “I take it you like it,” Jaskier says through a warm chuckle, holding the little girl for dear life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh it’s so wonderful! You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to play it for everybody else. You have to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I strongly agree.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier and Ciri simultaneously swivel around, Ciri smiling wide. “Yen!” she exclaims, jumping off the piano bench and running towards the sorceress, who kneels down to meet the little girl’s hug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s lips curve. “How much of it did you hear?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Enough.” Yennefer’s violet eyes soften. “It really is good, Jaskier. The people here will enjoy it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Yen. Maybe in a few days, when it’s ready,” he replies, feeling ridiculously flattered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We’ll hold you to that. Won’t we, Ciri?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri nods almost frantically. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> will love it. Dad will love it. Don’t you think dad will love it, Yen?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s heart skips a beat at the mention of Geralt. Yennefer looks at him like she </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>and, honestly, Jaskier wouldn’t put it past her. “He most definitely will,” she confirms with a sly grin, and Jaskier watches as she takes Ciri by the hands and carts her off to her sorcery lesson.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart doesn’t resume its steady rhythm until much, much later. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Jaskier bikes down to the training grounds, as he’s wont to do on the mornings that he doesn’t have piano lessons with Ciri. He’s just placed his backpack onto one of the benches on the outskirts of the outside gym, and is about to flag down Eskel when the words promptly die in his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because there, running drills with the other witchers under Vesemir’s guidance, is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and Jaskier glimpses for the first time, Geralt’s smooth, buzzed undercut. He’s wearing a dark tank top that accents the flat, fine ridges of his muscles, and matching sweats. His tattoo is peaking up from underneath the tank top. Saliva pools in Jaskier’s mouth, unbidden, and oh gods, he can’t be here, he needs to leave </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now</span>
  </em>
  <span> before someone notices him - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier! Come join us” Eskel calls, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and bites his tongue to keep himself from muttering the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit </span>
  </em>
  <span>out loud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns around, hoping against hope that he doesn’t look as flustered as he feels. A quick, cursory look at the training grounds confirms that Lambert isn’t here today. Probably out on a contract. Thank the gods for small mercies. Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>the red-headed witcher would’ve teased him mercilessly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can, uh, come back,” Jaskier says, throat working nervously, embarrassed by how </span>
  <em>
    <span>rough </span>
  </em>
  <span>his voice sounds. Melitele, he needs to get laid. It’s been too long if the mere </span>
  <em>
    <span>sight </span>
  </em>
  <span>of Geralt working up a sweat is enough to send him into a complete tizzy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense,” Eskel waves him off. “I can run drills with you. Vesemir won’t mind, right Vesemir?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The older witcher snorts, noncommittal. “Or you can feel free to join in, Jaskier,” he says, which is the first time Jaskier can recall Vesemir addressing </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> directly. It makes him smile wide even as he shakes his head. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for the offer really, but there is literally </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> I want to do less.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>grins </span>
  </em>
  <span>at that, a wolfish thing that sends heat pooling low in Jaskier’s stomach. “Can’t keep up?” he says and oh gods, is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>White Wolf </span>
  </em>
  <span>teasing him?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” Jaskier admits merrily. “Nor would I want to.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, to Jaskier’s complete astonishment, Geralt offers, “I’ll train with you. Eskel needs these drills more than I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Geralt,” Eskel says drily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt shoots him an amused look before turning back to face Jaskier. “What do you usually practice?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I, um -” Jaskier’s brain short-circuits; there is really no other word for it. His tongue is heavy and suddenly feels too large for his mouth. “You, uh, you really don’t have to. I don’t want to impose.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re not imposing. I want to,” Geralt assures and goodness his </span>
  <em>
    <span>voice</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like loose stones and gravel in the wind, a perpetual low rumble. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Get it together, Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“O-okay, well, erm - Eskel and I usually do some weight lifting; bicep curls, crunches, lunges, all of that,” Jaskier says, pleased to find that his fingers are only shaking a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span> and his voice remains relatively steady. “And, uh, lately we’ve taken to doing some sword training.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nothing too fancy, Geralt,” Eskel chimes in. “Some basic footwork and parrying.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm. Okay then,” Geralt nods. “Grab a sword.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier actually gulps, and retreats to the corner of the training grounds where the wooden swords are kept, his palms already sweating. He remembers asking Eskel why witchers favored swords the first time the two of them had trained with them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Guns are barbaric; cause more bloodshed and violence than is needed or wanted,” Eskel had said. “We’re exactly as lethal as we need to be with swords.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which, frankly, is still one of the most poetic things Jaskier’s ever heard. Another reason why witchers are far nobler than the Continent gives them credit for; another reason he feels compelled to change the gross misrepresentation of who they are. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt hands him one of the swords, and Jaskier holds his breath when their fingers brush together briefly, heart rabbiting inside of his chest. “Show me your form,” the witcher instructs, and Jaskier obeys with a tight nod. He stands with feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent a little, right hand out and gripping the sword firmly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good,” Geralt rumbles after a quick appraisal, eyes more honey than gold, and color rises to Jaskier’s cheeks. The White Wolf mimics Jaskier’s stance, looking confident and polished and utterly resplendent. “Now - attack me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment, desperately trying to re-center himself. This is no different than when Eskel runs through these exercises with him. He can do this. He can do </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” he whispers, and with one quick, steadying breath, he strikes at Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt, expectedly, parries it with ease, before twisting around and counter-attacking. Jaskier blocks it, heartened when he sees something like pride in Geralt’s features. It goes on like that for a while - the sound of wood on wood echoing through the training grounds as their swords clash time and time again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Be honest,” Jaskier says, wiping the sweat building at his brow, panting, “how easy are you going on me right now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt smirks. “Very.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Like easier than…?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Easier than what I’d do with Ciri.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier actually manages to school his features into mock offense. “Oh, come on now, surely I should be able to handle whatever you’re throwing at an </span>
  <em>
    <span>eight-year-old</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s smirk turns positively wicked, and he launches an attack that takes Jaskier completely off-guard. He stumbles, and Geralt takes the opportunity to knock his sword right out of his hand, grip his wrist, and spin him around so that Jaskier’s back is flush against Geralt’s chest, Geralt’s wooden sword pointed at Jaskier’s neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is heaving, deep, shuddering gasps, locked in the White Wolf’s tight - and deadly - embrace. He tries not to think about how he can feel every single finely sculpted muscle; the press of strong thighs against his own; the hot breath on his neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Caught you,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier has to bite his tongue to stop himself from letting out a truly embarrassing whine, his skin pebbling with gooseflesh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you really - there’s no way Ciri goes through this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right. Ciri doesn’t let herself get caught so easily.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt lets go of him and Jaskier forces himself to stay upright, his legs the consistency of jelly. There’s still an amused half-smile curling at his lips, his golden eyes dark and hooded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s just rude,” Jaskier says, licking his lips, surprised when Geralt traces the movement. “Shall we go again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Catch me again. Please catch me again. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt tips his head. There’s something...</span>
  <em>
    <span>pleased </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>heated </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his expression, and it sends blood roaring in Jaskier’s ears. “Again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Jaskier gets back to his room, he makes a beeline for the bathroom; turns the shower on and cranks up the water pressure. He lets his clothes fall in a haphazard pile on the bathroom floor and steps into the shower, gasping softly at the shock of the warm water pelting his back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, his eyes close, and he lets his mind replay the events of the day. Geralt, sparring with him, twisting Jaskier in his arms, bringing him up against the corded muscles of his back, whispering in his ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Caught you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he remembers Geralt rumbling, low and </span>
  <em>
    <span>filthy </span>
  </em>
  <span>in his ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier takes himself in hand and starts to stroke, letting Geralt overwhelm his thoughts and his senses. He imagines Geralt’s huge hands around him, that cupid-bow’s mouth sucking on his neck, his body bracketed between huge thighs. He lets his head fall against the cool, wet tile, his other hand gripping the shower knob so tightly his knuckles whiten. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Caught you,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier hears again in his mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He comes with a muffled choke and the image of Geralt’s eyes burning in his mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: wish me luck! Performing my new song at the bar tonight *fingers crossed emoji*</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: good luck boo! Everyone is going to love your song, i know it</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Jaskier: thank you Pri, i love you</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: i love you too. Lmk how it goes! xoxo </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Last Rose </span>
  </em>
  <span>is absolutely packed tonight, swarms of humans, dwarves, elves, and other nonhumans crowding the bar and the tables. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier inhales deeply as he steps up on the stage, lute strapped to his back. He’s an odd mix of nervous and excited. It’s been - gods it’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>six weeks</span>
  </em>
  <span> since he’s last performed in front of a crowd, and he’s missed it. There’s no doubt in Jaskier’s mind as he takes in the pleased rumble of the crowd, the soft purple and blue lights, the thrum of energy in the air, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>- perform, entertain, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sing </span>
  </em>
  <span>-  is what he was born to do. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello,” he greets pleasantly. “Hope everyone’s having a marvelous evening tonight. My name is Jaskier, I’m new in town.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pauses, grinning widely when the crowd claps and cheers, various shouts of “welcome, Jaskier!” echoing through the bar. Gods, he loves this place. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, thank you so much,” he says. “So, the song I’m about to perform for you is -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s words die in his throat when he spies the door of the bar pop open, and a crowd of people flit in. Dozens of golden eyes, one pair of brown eyes, and one knowing violet gaze greet him. Yennefer shoots him a saucy wink as they all take a seat at one of the empty tables by the stage. There’s Triss, Eskel, Lambert, Aubry, Gweld, Vesemir, and -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier swallows heavily. Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert waves at him, a huge grin on his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fuck, Jaskier is going to kill him and Yennefer both for this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from their table. “The song I’m about to sing for you is, uh, one of my own. I was inspired to write it by this city, the witchers who built it, and this beautiful community you’ve all created here. It’s called </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wolves</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He very carefully and deliberately does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>glance over at the table of his friends. “So, um, let’s get started.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier strums the first few notes on his lute, allowing the audience to melt away so that he can focus only on coaxing the sounds from his instrument; the words from his throat. He sings about witchers and their strong moral compass, their drive to help the less fortunate, their sense of honor and duty. He sings about the world they created here, one devoid of prejudice simply for being born different. Jaskier sings as loud and as clearly as he’s ever dared, letting the tune transport him. He struts about the stage, steady and confident, and with a wide smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he ends his song, it’s with a bit of a flourish, because he’s an entertainer first and foremost and he’s always enjoyed a bit of pomp and circumstance in his performance. There’s a split-second of deafening silence where, for one, awful moment, Jaskier thinks he’s fucked it; that everyone hates his song - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then the whole room erupts into wild, thunderous applause. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nearly staggers with the full force of the reception, letting out a breathless, disbelieving laugh at how loud and </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy </span>
  </em>
  <span>everyone sounds. He finally dares to look at the table of witchers and sorceresses, and finds everyone there on their feet, cheering and clapping louder than anybody else. He grins and takes a sweeping bow, blowing out a kiss as he steps off stage, his lute bumping against his back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A swarm of witchers immediately greets him, and Jaskier can’t stop laughing as Eskel and Lambert and Aubry and Gweld embrace him, Triss and Yennefer shamelessly joining in the fray. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That was an outstanding song, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier, come here, you brilliant whoreson.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t believe you wrote a song about </span>
  <em>
    <span>us</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Who knew you could sing like a fucking dream?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is flush with all the praise, dizzy and ecstatic and feeling like he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>flying</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even Vesemir is looking on with what Jaskier suspects is a thin sheen of </span>
  <em>
    <span>tears </span>
  </em>
  <span>in the old witcher’s eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hand settles on his wrist, leading him away from the warm, but slightly suffocating, swarm of witchers, and Jaskier is spun away from the small crowd of his friends and practically stumbles into Geralt’s strong arms. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The White Wolf is looking at him with an intensity and a clearness in his yellow eyes that threatens to overwhelm Jaskier. Like Jaskier is someone...</span>
  <em>
    <span>precious </span>
  </em>
  <span>to him</span>
  <em>
    <span>; </span>
  </em>
  <span>someone worth protecting. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that how you see us?” Geralt murmurs, but Jaskier hears him loud and clear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” he breathes with conviction. He feels Geralt’s hand tighten around his wrist. “You are...</span>
  <em>
    <span>extraordinary. </span>
  </em>
  <span>All of you. Good and righteous and honest. Everyone should know the truth about witchers.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Blue Eyes,” Lambert says, voice rough. “Nobody’s ever talked about witchers like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would,” Jaskier says softly. He looks at each one of his companions - his </span>
  <em>
    <span>friends</span>
  </em>
  <span>, who came to cheer him on. “I want to. If you’ll let me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm. I want you to be safe. Let’s figure out how to do that first,” Geralt looks meaningfully over at Eskel, who nods his head, “and then...yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods. “Thank you, Geralt. For keeping me safe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re one of us now, Jaskier. I don’t let anything happen to what’s mine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s said so easily, and yet there is real intensity, real purpose, behind those words. Belatedly, Jaskier realizes that Geralt has yet to let go of his wrist, and the witcher </span>
  <em>
    <span>must </span>
  </em>
  <span>sense the way Jaskier’s pulse quickens beneath his grip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yours,” he repeats. Jaskier holds Geralt’s gaze, bites the inside of his cheek, before taking a leap, “I quite like the sound of that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s heart is still thrumming wildly in his veins when he gets to his room later that night. He carefully sets his lute aside before fishing around his pocket for his phone. Gods, he can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait </span>
  </em>
  <span>to tell Priscilla about his evening.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thumbs over the screen of his phone, frowning a little when he sees a missed call and two texts from her. Jaskier clicks on the messages. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart stops; blood curdles in his veins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: We have your little friend. Call if you don’t want her to die.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[iMessage] Priscilla: *picture of Priscilla, bound and gagged, tied to a chair. Her eyes are wide and afraid, and tears stain her cheeks*</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With trembling fingers, and low, panicked breaths, Jaskier slides his index finger over the call button next to Priscilla’s name. The phone starts to ring. He knows, with bone-deep certainty, who is going to be on the other end of that phone call. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Mr. Pankratz. So nice of you to finally call.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier closes his eyes, tears spilling over his cheeks. “Queen Calanthe?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Close. Angoulême, her head of security,” the voice informs him almost pleasantly. Jaskier wants to vomit. “You’ve caused quite the headache for our queen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please. Please don’t hurt Priscilla.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well that depends on you entirely, Mr. Pankratz. I assure you, Queen Calanthe has no interest in harming your friend.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What does she want?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“At first it was you, dead,” Angoulême says, her tone still chillingly pleasant. “But it seems you’ve managed to get yourself the protection of some truly heinous folk -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The only heinous people here are you and the coward you call a queen,” Jaskier interrupts with a hiss. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a short silence on the end of the line before Angoulême resumes talking once more, voice gone completely cold, “I’d watch what you say very carefully, Mr. Pankratz. Your little friend’s life depends on it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a tremulous breath, blinking furiously against the bitter sting of tears. “Tell me what you want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Everything you know about Kaer Morhen and the White Wolf of course.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” Jaskier holds his phone in a vise-like grip. “Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid that’s none of your business. Tomorrow morning, you will make up an excuse to get to Ard Carraigh. We’ll text you the exact location and details. You will come prepared to answer any and all questions about Kaer Morhen, the White Wolf’s residence, the witchers who live there, and anything else Queen Calanthe might fancy knowing. If you don’t, your friend dies,” Angoulême says. “Are we understood?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great. Oh, and Mr. Pankratz?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mention our little get together to </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span> and darling Priscilla dies anyway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The line goes dead. Jaskier stands there numbly, tears still streaming down his face. His grip goes slack and the phone clatters to the ground. He makes no move to pick it up.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier gasps, dry heaves, and covers his face with his hands to muffle his sobs. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you to everyone who has been reading and who wanted to see daily updates! Updates *are* officially daily, so hopefully you don’t feel like I’ll be leaving you hanging for too long. xoxo!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Everything blurs. The world tilts on its axis, goes sideways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier can’t breathe. There’s a steady white noise building in his ear drums, his mouth is too dry, and his hands are cold and clammy. He feels like he’s drowning, choking on the inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know how much time passes - a minute, an hour, an eternity - before he slowly kneels down and retrieves his phone from the ground. There’s a crack at the corner of the screen, thin as a strand of hair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something in Jaskier breaks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He runs out of his room, slamming the door shut, stalking out into the hallway and towards the west wing of the manor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert is standing guard outside of the White Wolf’s office, and the witcher straightens when he sees Jaskier approach, brow crinkling. “Blue Eyes, what are you -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I need to speak with Geralt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert’s eyebrows shoot up. Jaskier knows what he must look like - frantic, hysterical, eyes wild, mouth pinched, and tone clipped - so unlike how he usually carries himself. “Jaskier,” Lambert says slowly. “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I told you. I need to talk to Geralt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s not going to be possible right now, Jaskier. He’s meeting with his advisors. Hell, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can’t even be in there right now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Lambert,” Jaskier says, letting desperation leak into his tone. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be doing this right now if I didn’t absolutely have to. It can’t wait. I have to talk to him </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The witcher must smell the anguish on Jaskier, taste the sincerity of his words. He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “Fuck. Okay. Eskel is going to kill me,” Lambert mutters.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll tell him it’s my fault,” Jaskier assures, and doesn’t even wait for Lambert to knock before he opens the door to the office and walks in, Lambert hot on his heels and cursing softly behind him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Four heads immediately snap up towards him, all in various degrees of surprise. Jaskier is eerily reminded of his first night in Kaer Morhen, the first and only other time he’s ever been in the White Wolf’s office. Vesemir recovers first, and immediately stands up, nearly snarling. “You can’t be here -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t dare interrupt if this wasn’t important,” Jaskier cuts in quickly. His whole body is shaking as he pulls his phone out from his pocket, walking over to the table. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer frowns. “Jaskier, what’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t speak for once; simply lays his phone on the table and slides it towards Geralt. The White Wolf looks at him for a moment before picking up the phone. His expression darkens immediately. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he says, passing the phone to Eskel and Yennefer, who let out simultaneous hisses of dismay. “Did you call her already?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nods through tears, eyes steady on Geralt even as Yennefer hands his phone over to Vesemir and then Lambert. “I did, I’m sorry. I saw the text and I just - gods, I just </span>
  <em>
    <span>panicked</span>
  </em>
  <span> -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Geralt reassures, and his voice is so soft it breaks something inside Jaskier. “Tell us what happened.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier relays his entire conversation with Angoulême as faithfully as he can. His hands are still shaking so he fists them tightly by his side. The room grows thicker and thicker with tension the more Jaskier talks. “And she said that if - if she somehow caught wind that I’d told you anything at all, she’d kill Priscilla.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>cunt</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Yennefer snaps with great feeling. “Don’t worry Jaskier, we’re going to figure this out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyes are unusually clear as he looks at Jaskier. “You were right to come to us. We won’t let anything happen to Priscilla. I swear to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Jaskier whispers. “I trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. All of you. I don’t trust Angoulême or Calanthe not to harm Priscilla regardless of what I do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It won’t come to that,” Eskel says quickly and with confidence. He glances over at Geralt. “We need a plan.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Calanthe has no mages on her council. Nobody with magic. Let’s use her bigotry against her,” Yennefer says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Geralt rumbles. “We’ll have to take her by surprise. Jaskier -” their eyes lock. “You’ll have to pretend to go along with their plan. Text them when they text you. Make Calanthe believe you’re going to give her everything she asks for, but tell her you need to see Priscilla alive first before you talk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier swallows thickly. “I - I can do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yen, Eskel, Lambert, and I will be right behind you. Yen will portal us into Ard Carraigh. As soon as we have eyes on Priscilla, we’ll grab her and get her somewhere safe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Calanthe won’t risk taking more than five or ten bodyguards into another monarch's country,” Yennefer adds. “Should be simple enough for three witchers and a sorceress to deal with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what about the bitch herself?” Lambert asks. “What do we do with her?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt sneers ominously. There’s something like steel and iron and </span>
  <em>
    <span>anger</span>
  </em>
  <span> in his voice. “Leave Calanthe to me. The two of us are long overdue for a conversation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer walks Jaskier back to his room after the meeting comes to an end. It’s so reminiscent of his first night in the manor it brings a small, if pained, smile to his face. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know we’ve said this already, but you did the right thing coming to Geralt,” Yennefer whispers. Her hand comes up to squeeze the inside of his arm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” Jaskier says, just as quietly. “I trust Geralt. I trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>of you. I just -” his voice breaks. “Calanthe is going through Priscilla, through </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, to hurt Geralt. And I don’t understand why.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t tell Yennefer about how guilty he feels, how bone-deep </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrified </span>
  </em>
  <span>he is that Priscilla and Geralt and everyone he’s come to care for in Kaer Morhen is in the cross-hairs of a vengeful queen because of him. Yennefer seems to intuit all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t your fault. There is a lot of...</span>
  <em>
    <span>history</span>
  </em>
  <span> between Calanthe and Geralt. Complicated, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ugly</span>
  </em>
  <span> history,” she says. At Jaskier’s questioning look, Yennefer heaves a great, deep sigh. “You know that Ciri is my daughter in all the ways that matter.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Jaskier responds automatically. Ciri may not call Yen ‘mother’ but it’s obvious all the same. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, you’ll be interested to know that her </span>
  <em>
    <span>biological </span>
  </em>
  <span>mother is Pavetta Riannon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The name sounds oddly familiar; echoing in Jaskier’s memory. A story about a young, vibrant woman and her husband in a freak airplane crash seven years ago. A monarch in mourning -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It clicks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Calanthe’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead daughter </span>
  </em>
  <span>is Ciri’s biological mother?” Jaskier exclaims, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline and wincing a little at the callousness of his words. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I thought - wasn’t she married when she passed? Gods what was his name -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Emyhr Van Emreis. Duny, as most people called him. He’s Ciri’s biological father,” at Jaskier’s increasingly puzzled expression, Yennefer adds, “Ciri is Geralt’s Child Surprise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” if Jaskier thought he was surprised before, it’s nothing compared to how he feels right now, “People still call on the law of surprise?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If by people you mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Yennefer replies wryly. “And Geralt is an idiot, although this particular bout of idiocy turned out well for all of us. At any rate, you can imagine that Calanthe wasn’t exactly </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrilled </span>
  </em>
  <span>when Geralt rightfully went to claim Ciri as his own after her parents died.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jaskier murmurs faintly. He knows firsthand how vengeful of a person Queen Calanthe can be. “I can see that”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know it’s not much, but take comfort in the fact that these tensions have been brewing for a long time. Calanthe simply sealed her fate when she decided to harm someone close to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier bites his lip. “Why’s that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because you care for Priscilla, and Geralt cares for you. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one </span>
  </em>
  <span>touches the people Geralt cares about.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer leaves him with another comforting press to his arm and a kiss on his cheek. Her words stay with Jaskier long after he closes his eyes to sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Jaskier wakes up to a text from Priscilla’s number. It’s an address, with instructions to meet there at 11:30.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grinds his teeth so hard it hurts his jaw, and takes a quick screenshot, sending it to Yennefer via an encrypted messaging app. He gets out of bed, takes a shower, brushes his teeth, and tries very hard to ignore the fact that his hands haven’t stopped shaking since last night.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to cancel his piano lesson with Ciri today, escorting her to the lab downstairs for a lesson with Triss. She’s concerned, but between him and Triss they do their best to reassure her that nothing’s wrong; that Jaskier just has some business outside of town he needs to take care of; that he’ll make it up to her soon, he promises. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then Jaskier bikes into the city, as he’s done nearly every day since he first got to Kaer Morhen. Only once he locks his bike up, he reaches for his phone and orders a Lyft to Ard Carraigh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The drive is an unbearably long one, and Jaskier spends it alternating between trying not to freak out, and gnawing at the skin around his fingernails. He deletes the encryption app from his phone, per Yennefer’s instructions, and does a soft reset of his settings. He winds nervous fingers through the necklace around his neck. It’s a pressed buttercup - a nod to his preferred name - encased in resin and set on a silver chain. Priscilla had gifted it to him a few years back and, though he hasn’t taken to wearing it as much lately, he’s always carried it with him. Jaskier wears the necklace today not just as a way to remind himself to be strong for Priscilla, but because Yennefer had infused it with an enchantment earlier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So we can track your exact location no matter where you are - and hear you, though you won’t be able to hear us,” she’d said to him, and Jaskier had nearly hugged her, he’d felt so grateful for that extra layer of protection. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the car finally starts rolling to a stop, it’s in front of a villa with a nondescript door painted a deep emerald green. The villa stands alone, no other houses or buildings around for several miles at least. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier waits until the driver departs before walking up the steps to the door. He knocks, but doesn’t bother waiting before trying the doorknob, surprised to find the door unlocked. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In the living room!” Someone calls out with fake pleasantness and Jaskier stiffens and nearly bites off his tongue. He recognizes that voice - Angoulême. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He walks down a decrepit hallway, with striped wallpaper peeling off the walls and dust gathering on the floor, and comes across another door. When he opens this one, it’s to a vast, empty room, completely dark save for the light peaking through drab, moth-eaten curtains. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the center of the room, sat comfortably on a leather armchair and surrounded by bodyguards - Jaskier counts six - is Calanthe. Her hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, her eyes lined heavily with black kohl. She’s wearing a sleek, expensive pantsuit - Gucci, Jaskier guesses, or maybe Chanel. Standing immediately behind her, is a woman with ash blonde hair tied into a thick, French braid. She’s clad in a black catsuit and a thick forest green bomber jacket, and Jaskier glimpses a holster with a gun at her hip. Angoulême, he presumes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Pankratz,” she greets with that sickly sweet, syrupy voice. “So nice of you to join us.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please spare me the fake pleasantries. Where is Priscilla?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s Calanthe who speaks. “So </span>
  <em>
    <span>eage</span>
  </em>
  <span>r,” she tuts with obvious disapproval. “But first things first - pat him down.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two of the bodyguards approach him, and Jaskier clenches his jaw as one of them kicks his feet apart and makes him extend his arms, while the other begins patting him down, presumably for a wire. The guard pauses at his buttercup necklace, lifts it up and inspects it, before moving down the planes of his chest. It’s horribly intrusive, and the hairs at the back of Jaskier’s neck stand up when hands start skimming up one of his thighs and down the other. He stays quiet, even as the tips of his ears burn with indignation, and watches as the guard retrieves his phone and hands it over to Angoulême. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He’s clean,” the guard says, both men returning to stand by Calanthe. Angoulême thumbs over Jaskier’s phone with mild interest, before turning it off. She chucks it back at him and Jaskier fumbles to catch it with two hands. “That shit stays off until you leave here. Are we clear?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Crystal,” Jaskier grits out. “Now where is Priscilla?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have a seat, Jaskier,” Calanthe says, indicating the chair right across from hers. An oak table separates them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier clenches his fists at his side, trying hard to reign in his temper. “I will tell you anything you godsdamn please but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>need </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see that Priscilla is alive and well first. You don’t have yourself a deal otherwise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calanthe’s dark brown eyes flash, and Jaskier is momentarily paralyzed by the idea that he pushed too far, that the queen will harm Priscilla just because she </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>, when -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Get the girl,” she barks at one of her bodyguards and Jaskier nearly wilts with relief. The man disappears into another door in the far corner of the room. When he comes back, it’s with Priscilla, still with a gag over her mouth and hands bound with rope; still with a wide-eyed look of fear in her eyes. Jaskier lets out a broken sob, and nearly trips over himself as he tries to reach for her, stopped in his tracks by Angoulême. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He glares at the woman. “What the -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You see her. She is fine,” Calanthe interrupts. Her eyes narrow. “Now have a fucking seat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No,” he spits out, fingers coming up to grip his necklace hard. “I don’t think I fucking will.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before anyone else can get a word in, a portal appears in the middle of the room. Lambert emerges first, and makes an immediate dive for Priscilla, knocking out the guards closest to her. Eskel is hot on his heels, and takes care of three more of the guards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It all descends into complete chaos after that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Angoulême lets out a shout, hand reaching for the gun in her holster, but she’s blocked by Yennefer, who uses her magic to slam the blonde against a wall and hold her there. Calanthe topples her chair over as she gets up, eyes fixed murderously on Jaskier. “You -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She’s cut off when Geralt appears, the portal closing promptly behind him. He’s go twin swords in his hands, and uses one to injure the last guard and the other to point threateningly at Calanthe’s neck. He steps in front of Jaskier, an arm around his waist, blocking him from the queen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Calanthe,” he growls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room is silent for a long time as Lambert and Eskel work to quickly and methodically tie up each and every one of the guards and Angoulême. Yennefer, meanwhile, gets Priscilla out of the binds and the gag, and scans her over for any injuries. All Jaskier wants to do is go to her, but Geralt’s hand is still at his hip, acting as a physical shield between him and Calanthe. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re more of an idiot than I thought, trusting witchers,” the queen hisses, voice full of venom. Geralt’s sword is still pointed at her neck, but her eyes are fixed on Jaskier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t talk to him,” the White Wolf says. Jaskier feels the grip on his hip tighten subtly. “You’re talking to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t waste my breath on monsters.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel and Lambert let out simultaneous snarls, but Geralt quiets them with one look. “You’re going to talk to this one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Or what?” Calanthe says. “You’ll kill me?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No. But the rich bastards you’re beholden to might.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like all the air gets sucked out of the room. A muscle in Calanthe’s jaw twitches. Geralt still doesn’t remove the sword he’s pointing at her throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt gestures to Priscilla and then Jaskier. “You are going to let them walk out of here today and never touch them again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Calanthe’s expression darkens. “And why would I do that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because,” Geralt positively </span>
  <em>
    <span>growls</span>
  </em>
  <span>, low and dangerous, “if you ever so much as </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>in Jaskier’s direction again, I will pull all of my men from Cintra. Your fancy lords will have their lands ravaged by monsters, and when they come to me and ask why my witchers aren’t fulfilling their contracts, I’ll them to take it up with their queen.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t dare,” Calanthe says, inhaling sharply. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Try me,” Geralt dares, his voice a deep, menacing rumble. “Jaskier is </span>
  <em>
    <span>mine</span>
  </em>
  <span> and you threatened him. You do not threaten what is mine, your highness, do you understand?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is a moment where no one speaks, the entire room so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Jaskier’s heart is in his throat, his eyes not straying from Geralt, overwhelmed with awe and disbelief. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt called me his. He called me his. His. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a hope that’s swelling in his chest, something he hasn’t dared to let himself contemplate, but it’s there now, like sunlight in his veins. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>likes </span>
  </em>
  <span>that Geralt staked a claim on him so publicly and unashamed; wants to give all of himself to Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Slowly, as if it physically pains her, Calanthe nods. “I understand,” she spits out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt nods his head once at Yennefer, who conjures up another portal. Jaskier watches as Lambert, gently escorting Priscilla, walks through it, followed closely by Eskel. Geralt retracts his sword from Calanthe’s neck, and snakes his harm more firmly around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him towards the portal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The last thing they hear as they walk through the portal and back into Kaer Morhen is Calanthe. “Give my regards to my granddaughter,” she says, voice filled with venom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer lets the portal close firmly behind her. “Spiteful bitch,” she mutters. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lets himself properly exhale for the first time in years, a veritable weight lifted from his shoulders. He turns to finally, </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, properly look at Priscilla. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are fresh tears pooling in her blue eyes, and her wrists look like they’ve been scrubbed raw, but she looks gloriously, beautifully </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pri.” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a small, choked sob as he rushes towards her, and envelops Priscilla in a hug. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jask, thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she says in between breaths, burying her face in his neck. Jaskier holds her more tightly and soothes her with nonsensical murmurs. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes meet Geralt’s over Priscilla’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he mouths. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla gets a thorough checking over by Triss while Jaskier anxiously stands in the corner of the sorceresses' laboratory. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“She’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jaskier,” Yennefer reminds him dryly. “A little shaken up, but otherwise fine. All thanks to you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shakes his head. “All thanks to </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> and Geralt and everyone else. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” he says. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watches Triss push a potion of some sort in Priscilla’s hand, Priscilla listening intently to whatever instructions Triss is relaying. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Keep singing your songs. You were right. People deserve to know the truth about witchers,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier smiles wickedly at her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d like to see someone try and stop me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They share a small, companionable chuckle together, both straightening as Priscilla and Triss approach them. “Well, I don’t know about you all, but I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>exhausted</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Priscilla informs them with a wry smile. “Jaskier, can I crash in your room tonight?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I’ll take you there now,” he says, hugging Triss and Yennefer goodbye before looping his arm with Priscilla’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Great. And then maybe in the morning we can start packing up your stuff?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier freezes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Triss and Yennefer stiffen as well, clearly caught off guard as well. Shit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” he says, a bit dumbly. “You - you want to go back to Posada?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla’s brow crinkles. “Don’t you? I mean it’s safe for you to go back now, right?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I - I guess so,” he glances a bit desperately at the sorceresses. Triss looks crestfallen, and even Yennefer’s usually inscrutable expression is brittle around the edges. “But, I -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to leave, he realizes with a furious, all-encompassing jolt. It shouldn’t be possible to love something as quickly as he’s come to love his life in Kaer Morhen, but Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He wants to stay; wants to continue training with Eskell; exchange barbs with Lambert; hang out in the lab with Yennefer and Triss; teach Ciri piano - </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Be around Geralt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier licks his lips as he looks at Priscilla. “Come on. I think we need to talk, Pri,” he murmurs.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>We’re close to the endgame! Hope you all like this chapter and I’ll see you back here tomorrow for the final chapter. Thanks for coming on this ride with me, it was a blast &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is it! The chapter that finally earns this story its E rating haha. If you came here looking for the smut, this is the chapter where it happens. Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story — I hope the ending feels gratifying!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The moon is round and full, a glowing halo in an inky when Jaskier finds himself in the music room. He sits at the piano, fingers skimming over the keys. Priscilla had gone to bed a few hours before but Jaskier still feels wide awake and, not wanting to risk waking her up, had retreated to one of his safe havens in the manor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their conversation had been...long, and complicated. But eventually, Priscilla understood why Jaskier felt like he needed to stay, even if that meant she’d go back to Posada and their little two-bedroom flat alone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know, us not living together anymore doesn’t mean I love you any less,” he’d said. “I just - this life here -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s home now,” Priscilla had finished for him, eyes sparkling with a mixture of pride, wistfulness, and unshed tears. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. It’s home now.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m happy for you, Jask. I really am. I’m just...well, I’m sad for me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nodded, because he could understand that too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to leave tomorrow though, right?” he’d asked her a bit desperately. “You can stay for a little while.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll stay,” she’d agreed. “Of course I’ll stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla had retired to bed soon after that, exhausted, but Jaskier was too wired, practically vibrating with excess energy. Which is how he finds himself in the music room, hoping to soothe himself enough to get a few hours of sleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He plays a few songs, settling on a particular favorite of his from his time at Oxenfurt. He’d played it during sleepless nights there too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I like that one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier startles, nearly gasping in surprise as he turns his head up. There, standing in the doorway, is Geralt, a small smile curling at the edge of his lips. Jaskier, helplessly, smiles back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt,” he breathes. “What are you doing up at this positively criminal hour?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The teasing works. The corners of Geralt’s mouth edge even higher, and Jaskier is filled with an overwhelming urge to keep making this man smile. “Had a few things I needed to take care of in the office. Was heading to bed when I heard you play.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t realize -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be. I like hearing you play.” Geralt gestures towards Jaskier’s piano bench. It takes a few, embarrassing seconds for Jaskier to understand Geralt’s silent request and he obligingly scoots over, flushing a little at the praise. “Can’t sleep?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jaskier admits. “I have a lot on my mind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt hums. Then, without preamble, “Yennefer told me you were thinking of leaving.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no accusation in his tone. In fact, it’s almost carefully neutral. Jaskier’s heart quickens all the same. Fuck, he’s going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>kill </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yennefer. “Um, well, Priscilla is. Leaving, I mean, not just thinking about it. But not for a few days at least, which is good, gives me - um - a chance to show her around Kaer Morhen a bit…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier knows he’s rambling, fingers fidgeting nervously in the air. He’s also keenly aware that Geralt is watching him intensely, something flickering in the amber of those eyes, and clicks his mouth shut abruptly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you?” Geralt asks, voice as soft as a whisper. “Are you thinking of leaving?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, well, no. I, uh, I like it here. Really quite a bit. If it’s not an imposition.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s not.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then, yes, I’d really, really love to stay,” Jaskier finishes awkwardly. Geralt’s still watching him, and it’s overwhelming and delicious all at once, and Jaskier </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Gods, how he wants. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm,” Geralt says, but there’s something new in his eyes. Something soft and warm and earnest that sends liquid heat down Jaskier’s spine. “I’m glad to hear it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart kicks up a notch, chest swelling with an impossible hope. “Why?” Jaskier asks, breathlessly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because,” Geralt murmurs, so close Jaskier can feel his breath ghosting over his lips. He fights to hide a shudder and fails miserably. “I want you to stay.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then - he slots their mouths together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Finally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jaskier thinks, moaning freely into the kiss and latching on to Geralt like a starved man. He winds fingers into that silver-white hair, pulls the witcher impossibly closer, and deepens the kiss. Geralt lets out a pleased sound deep in his throat, a rumble that shakes Jaskier to his very core, his hands moving from Jaskier’s jaw to his waist, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Geralt murmurs against his lips, maneuvering them both so that Jaskier is somehow sitting astride his lap, despite the relatively small confines of the piano bench. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have - some idea,” Jaskier gasps out, as Geralt bites possessively at the soft juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, soothing over the burn with his tongue. There’ll be a bruise there in the morning, Jaskier knows, and he’s surprised by how much he loves it; how much he hopes Geralt will leave similar marks of possession across the entirety of his body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything is both too much and suddenly not enough. Jaskier grips Geralt’s shoulders firmly and starts rolling his hips, grinding down on the growing hardness he feels underneath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt groans, low and dark and deep. It’s the most beautiful sound Jaskier’s ever heard. He wants to hear more. “I want to take you to bed, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Jaskier nearly sobs. “Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next few minutes pass in a blur. Jaskier doesn’t really know how, but one moment, they’re kissing on the piano bench, and the next, they’re in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>room, and Geralt’s laying him down on a plush, sprawling king-sized bed. They make quick work of their clothes and their shoes, Jaskier’s hands skimming all of that naked skin, mapping out those scars, tracing those thick muscles. Geralt grabs both of Jaskier’s hands and pins them on either side of his side, caging him in, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, how he enjoys being trapped by this man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s pupils are blown wide, golden irises reduced to nothing but thin yellow bands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Want to fuck you, Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs against his heated skin, and Jaskier’s heart rate picks up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you let me fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Jaskier challenges, because he’s nothing if not defiant, eyes sparkling with mirth and arousal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you want?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier laughs breathlessly. “I want everything. Everything and anything you’ll give me, Geralt. That’s what I want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt growls. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes. Please, please, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier lets out a strangled cry when Geralt dips low and puts his mouth on him. “Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he keens as Geralt takes him deeper and deeper, bobbing his head up and down Jaskier’s length, like he was born to do this. Jaskier’s back arches, wanting </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Geralt’s hands on his hips hold him in place; make it so that he can only lie back and </span>
  <em>
    <span>take </span>
  </em>
  <span>it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt, fuck,” Jaskier gasps, biting down on another moan, “this is going to be over - </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
  <span> - a lot sooner than I want it to be if you don’t stop.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s eyes are alight, and he releases Jaskier’s mouth with an obscene pop, crawling up Jaskier’s body to kiss him deep and filthy. One of his hands reaches over, blindly searching around the nightstand by the bed. Jaskier watches through a lust-filled gaze as Geralt produces a bottle of lube, slicking up his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They share another kiss, all tongue and teeth, and Jaskier’s head falls back on the pillows in a choked-off moan as Geralt works one finger into him. “Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>gods</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he whines, rolling his hips, pushing down on that finger, wanting more. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Greedy,” Geralt murmurs and Jaskier can only writhe in response. But Geralt takes his time opening him up, slow and methodical and thorough, and doesn’t introduce another finger until he’s absolutely sure Jaskier can take it. It leaves Jaskier trembling all over with need, a near incoherent, wanton, sobbing mess. “I knew you’d make the prettiest sounds for me,” Geralt whispers, three fingers deep inside Jaskier. He finds that secret spot, the one that makes Jaskier see stars, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>curls</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Jaskier nearly arches off the bed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Geralt, I’m ready. Please just fuck me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he babbles. Sweat slides down his temples, curling his hair. “Want you inside of me. Want to feel you for days. Want you to fuck me ‘til I scream your name. Want to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Make me </span>
  <em>
    <span>yours</span>
  </em>
  <span> please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt groans. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>mine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Show me, White Wolf,” Jaskier says, licking his lips, pleased to no end when Geralt traces the movement with his eyes and then, his own tongue. “Show me I’m yours.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt slowly retracts his fingers, and Jaskier lets out a low whine at the loss, breath hitching when Geralt throws one of his legs over his shoulder. He lines himself up, turns his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s knee, and then slowly starts to sink in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Geralt,” Jaskier moans, throwing his head back at the initial burn of intrusion. But Geralt’s opened him up so well, worked him so loose, that the jolt of pain bleeds into pleasure quickly. “You feel so -” his voice cuts off, words failing him, as Geralt bottoms out, pressed flush against him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt grits his teeth; hikes Jaskier’s leg even higher and they both moan when he sinks in deeper. “Jaskier,” he rasps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Fuck me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s rewarded with another kiss, sloppy and wet and mostly all tongue, before Geralt gets to work. He slides out until only the head of his cock is still inside Jaskier, and rams back in hard. Again and again and again. He fucks Jaskier hard and fast and deep, a brutal, unrelenting pace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier rolls his hips; meets Geralt thrust for glorious thrust. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he gasps. “Just like that, darling. Fuck me just like that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck, Jaskier. The way you talk, the way you </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Geralt grinds out. “I want to -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Anything, darling. Fuck, anything you want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt makes a sound like he’s been punched in the gut, and bends to suck another bruise into Jaskier’s neck. Then he winds Jaskier’s other leg around his shoulder, bending him nearly in half, and fucks deeper into him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier nearly slams the back of his head against the headboard and wails his pleasure. Like this, the angle is deeper, and Geralt is snapping his hips into that little bump inside of him over and over and over -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Touch yourself, Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs in his ear, voice deliciously wrecked. “Touch yourself for me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier brings trembling fingers in between their sweat-slick bodies to grip his length. It only takes a few, furious strokes of his hand before he comes with tears in his eyes and Geralt’s name on his tongue, Geralt following him not too long after.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wakes up the next morning pleasantly sore and so, gloriously, ridiculously happy. Geralt is already awake, propped up on an elbow and chin pillowed in his hand. Jaskier grins. “Watching me sleep?” he murmurs, voice sleep-rough and teasing, tilting his head up to brush their lips together. “Little creepy, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt just hums, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and deepens the kiss. The pace goes from slow and languid to hard and heated, and Jaskier feels like his skin is set aflame. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He fucks Geralt, winding their fingers together as he drives hard and deep into him. Jaskier’s eyes never leave Geralt as he takes him, watching the witcher’s face contort with pleasure as he slams into him just right.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier brings lube-slicked fingers to wrap around Geralt’s frankly impressive cock, enjoying how it throbs in his palm. He pumps it to the rhythm of his thrusts, and it’s Geralt gravelly, broken whisper of his name as he comes that sends Jaskier tumbling over the edge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They hop into Geralt’s shower together, Geralt’s hands only leaving Jaskier’s body to grab the bar of soap. He works up a foaming lather and slides delicious, rough hands all over him tantalizingly. “So thorough, White Wolf,” Jaskier observes with a gasp, rushing to do the same. Geralt just hums and walks him into the spray of the shower, cupping his jaw and kissing him breathless, licking his way into Jaskier’s mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier has had many, many lovers over the years, and occasionally, he’s had the pleasure of showering with some of them. His experience with Geralt is second to none. Incomparable. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The White Wolf is thorough in all of his ministrations, kissing and biting down his body, adding more love bites to the franklu impressive collection dotting Jaskier’s neck and chest and thighs. Jaskier is seriously concerned Geralt is going to absolutely ruin him for other lovers. The thought sends a thrill of delight down his spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier, not to be outdone or outperformed in matters of sex, gives just as good as he gets. He runs soaped-up hands down Geralt’s arms, around the swell of his backside, across his broad chest. He finally ogles the tattoo there as long and as much as he pleases, tracing it with his eyes, then his fingers, then his tongue. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sound Geralt makes is going to be imprinted in his mind forever. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they finally make their way down to the kitchen in search of breakfast, the others are already there, all wearing similar smug expressions on their faces. Lambert shoots Jaskier a knowing look and Jaskier flushes even as he grins, he’s so ridiculously happy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh thank the gods you’ve fucked,” Yennefer deadpans with her usual, trademark, bluntness. “Everybody pay up.” She pushes a mug of steaming hot coffee into Jaskier’s hands, softening her snark with a kiss on his cheek. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Priscilla giggles. Jaskier looks at the sorceress, confused. “Wait, you’re telling me you all...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Placed bets on when you two would finally bang? Yes we did,” Lambert chimes in helpfully and Jaskier groans, wanting to hide his face behind his cup of coffee. “Although I’m pretty sure Yen cheated.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nonsense. You’re just a sore loser,” the sorceress retorts merrily. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> terrible people,” Jaskier says with feeling, and points an accusing finger at Eskel. “Did you know about this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel chuckles. “Know about it? I </span>
  <em>
    <span>organized </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, Jask.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This is outrageous. Completely unacceptable. Wouldn’t you agree, Geralt? Geralt -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt is smiling, soft and tender, and his eyes are warm and glowing as he looks at Jaskier with open, unabashed affection. It makes Jaskier forget his momentary - if pretend - indignation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiles back, and decides that yes, he can certainly deal with a little teasing so long as Geralt keeps looking at him that way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of his day passes by in a pleasant, sun-warm daze. Geralt kisses him slow and deep before he departs on a contract, Jaskier’s toes curling in his shoes. “I’ll be back this evening,” the witcher rumbles against Jaskier’s lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be waiting,” he replies right before Geralt captures his lips once more and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he could definitely get used to being kissed goodbye like this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier leaves Priscilla in the very good, if somewhat questionable hands of Triss and Yennefer as he scoops Ciri up for her piano lesson. “Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier!” she exclaims, bounding over to him excitedly. Jaskier kneels down with a short laugh and envelopes her in a hug.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hi little one, I’m sorry I had to flake out on our lesson yesterday,” he says. “How about I take you out for some ice cream when we’re done?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her eyes go comically wide. “Can we go to the shop that has the birds painted on the wall?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Jaskier replies reasonably, grinning wider. “Wouldn’t have dreamed of taking you anywhere else.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their lesson turns out to be extremely productive - Ciri’s usually a good student, but it’s obvious the motivation of ice cream has made her extra conscientious and less inclined to protest when Jaskier suggests she run through her scales, or practice a specific piece of the song again. When their lesson concludes, Jaskier takes Ciri to the alchemy lab to pick up Triss, Yennefer, and Priscilla, and the five of them pile up in Yennefer’s car and head to the city. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once they’re settled down, Ciri with a rather large bowl of strawberry and pistachio ice cream, smothered in whipped cream, Yennefer looks at Priscilla, and smirks, “You went to university with Jaskier, right?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Um, yeah, that’s right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Any embarrassing stories of him you’d like to share with us?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s jaw drops. Ciri giggles. “Priscilla don’t you dare,” he says, pointing his spoon at her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, Jask. My hands are tied,” she says, hands raised in mock surrender, not sounding sorry </span>
  <em>
    <span>at all</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “I can’t refuse one of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>hosts</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What would they take me for?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A very rude guest,” Triss, the absolute traitor, chimes in cheekily around a spoon of raspberry sherbet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Jaskier, I won’t say anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> embarrassing.” A pause. “Certainly won’t mention that you considered calling yourself </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dandelion</span>
  </em>
  <span> our first year at the Academy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Priscilla!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Jaskier exclaims, voice strangled, as the table erupts in delighted laughter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dinner at the White Wolf’s manor that night is rowdier than usual. The food is aplenty, the drinks are free flowing, and there’s spirited conversation and laughter everywhere. At one point, Lambert leaves and comes back with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>case </span>
  </em>
  <span>of Dom Perignon, and pops open two at once. Priscilla squeals in surprise and Triss shoots him a dirty look and half-heartedly slaps his arm when the spray of champagne hits their clothes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, loosen up,” Lambert says around an unrepentant grin. “We’ve got much to celebrate. Those fuckers in Cintra are never gonna mess with us again thanks to the Wolf.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ciri giggles, burrowing herself in Geralt’s side. “Lambert said a bad word,” she whispers conspiratorially. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He did,” Geralt agrees, wry, tucking her closer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My bad, my bad, little one.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier presses his lips together to suppress a smile at what really </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound like an apologetic tone from Lambert. He wisely chooses to say nothing, just accepts the flute of champagne handed to him, and shares a knowing look with Yennefer when Lambert isn’t looking. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once everyone’s received their glass of champagne, Ciri bestowed with a cup of fizzy apple juice, Geralt leads them in a toast. “To the code,” he says, raising his glass. “To the Order. To you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To the White Wolf,” Eskel finishes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To the White Wolf!” everyone else echoes enthusiastically, clinking their glasses. Jaskier is smiling wide as he takes a sip from his own flute, enjoying the bubbles on his tongue. His eyes don’t leave Geralt’s. Geralt’s lips curl. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The festivities go well into the night, everyone progressively getting drunker and merrier, as Lambert recruits Gweld and Aubry to help him pop more bottles of champagne. They’ve all moved from the dining table to the living room, people either strewn about on couches and loveseats, leaning by the kitchen bar, or dancing. Jaskier’s been engrossed in conversation with Priscilla and Eskel when he feels a warm hand curling at his elbow, and turns to find Geralt, Ciri asleep and hoisted up on his hip. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have something for you,” Geralt whispers. He brushes a sweet kiss on Ciri’s forehead, depositing her in Yennefer’s arms. “Yen, can you -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take her to her room, don’t worry,” the sorceress assures with a knowing smile. Her violet eyes are gleaming like amethysts in sunlight. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Go</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt flashes her a small smile before leading Jaskier away from the fray. “Come on,” he murmurs, a hand pressed steadily at the small of Jaskier’s back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s grin is wide, if a bit confused. “A gift for me? So soon?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt just hums. “Hush,” he says with no bite in his tone, winding his arm more firmly around Jaskier’s waist, pressing him closer. Jaskier goes gladly, because there’s nowhere that he wouldn’t willingly follow the White Wolf. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They make a left turn and descend a flight of stairs. Jaskier grows more and more confused, but keeps his questions to himself. He’s never been on this side of the mansion before. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt -” he begins, when his curiosity gets the better of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here,” Geralt says, stopping them in front of a thick, wooden door. He pulls it open, stepping aside so Jaskier can enter the room first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s dark, and Jaskier hears Geralt shuffle to turn on the lights. He blinks, lets his eyes adjust, and looks around. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His jaw drops. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a music studio. There’s a recording booth with what appears to be sound-proof glass, monitors, mics, a digital audio workstation, and all manners of instruments. Jaskier spies a bass guitar, an acoustic guitar, a drum set, and a synthesizer. His hands start to shake. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt,” he whispers, turning around with wide eyes. There’s the softest expression of adoration on Geralt’s face that sends his heart up his throat. “What - what is this?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s a recording studio,” Geralt says patiently, with a fond twitch of his lips. “For you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But - how? Why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Because you sing about who we really are. You see us - you see </span>
  <em>
    <span>me - </span>
  </em>
  <span>as we are. Not as monsters,” Geralt explains. He steps towards Jaskier; tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Do you like it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I like it?” Jaskier echoes with a disbelieving laugh. “Geralt, it's perfect. It’s got - it’s got everything I could possibly want. I love it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’m glad. I worked on it with this local singer in town. Essi Daven. She has this band - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Little Eye.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, she did a wonderful job. It’s perfect. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt steps even closer. In the light, his eyes appear to glow. “I want you to keep singing,” he whispers. “I want you to have everything you need here to keep singing; to stay by my side.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Jaskier breathes, overcome with emotion. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” He twines fingers in that silver-white hair, and knows, deep in his bones, that he’s never going to tire of ever looking into those golden eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those same golden eyes that are looking at him like he’s the best thing they’ve seen in a long time. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier feels the brush of fingers at the back of his nape as Geralt brings him close to press their lips together once more. He smiles into the kiss, Geralt drinking in his sighs, and feels his chest swell with one, overwhelming, all-encompassing thought. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Home</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473062">I will watch the world burn without you</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MordorIsCalling/pseuds/MordorIsCalling">MordorIsCalling</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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